^  COMING  BACK 
o/LAURENCE  AVERIL 


The  Coming  Back  of 
Laurence  Averil 


o. 


'THE  FELLOWS  AT  THE  OARS  WAXED  FEARFUL  AND  UTTERED 
DIRK  WARNINGS." 


The  Coming  Back  of 
Laurence  Averil 


BY 
MAURICE    DRAKE 

AUTHOR   OF    "  W    Oa  " 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  A.  W.  PARSONS 


New  York 
Edward  J.  Clode 

Publisher 


COPYRIGHT,  1015,  BT 
EDWARD   J.    CLOCK 


The  Coming  Back  of 
Laurence  Averil 


; 


CHAPTER  I 


A  RISING  full  moon,  the  earliest  of  young 
summer,  lingered  yet  behind  the  black  turrets 
of  Dover  Castle,  sending  between  them  long 
fingers  of  light  upon  the  twilit  peace  of  the 
harbor  below. 

Beneath  it  to  seaward  the  intermittent 
flash — flash — flash  of  the  South  Foreland 
light  wheeled  regularly  upon  a  wisp  of  pale 
sea  mist,  that  faded  and  vanished  as  though 
the  giant  beam  had  wiped  it  from  existence. 
Upon  the  sheer  face  of  the  chalk  chance  prom- 
inences here  and  there  caught  the  growing 
moonlight,  the  shadows  between  them  mak- 
ing of  the  cliffs  a  mighty  fairy  lacework  of 
frosted  silver  upon  deep  dark  blue.  In  its 
little  valley  the  town  lay  almost  silent,  its 
sea  front  checkered  with  lighted  windows 
and  strung  with  beads  of  light,  dependent  in 
long  catenaries  from  lamp  to  lamp  along  the 
promenade.  Touched  by  the  moonlight,  the 
trident  of  piers  stretched  whitely  forth  over 
the  still  cliff-shadowed  waters,  their  ends 
dimly  illuminate  at  monotonously  cadenced 
intervals  with  a  sickly  light  that  waxed  and 
waned  as  the  great  green  lantern  revolved 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

slowly  around  the  masthead  of  the  harbor 
works  light-vessel. 

Beyond,  in  the  narrow  straits,  threaded 
with  silent  traffic,  outward  and  homeward 
bound  vessels  announced  arrival  or  de- 


parture by  high-flung  rockets  or  the  blue- 
white  deck  flares,  disposed  after  set  fashion, 
fore,  aft,  or  amidships,  in  the  night  speech 
of  the  sea. 

Between  the  swift-shifting  traffic  and  the 
cliff  shore  a  little  cutter-rigged  yacht,  her 
sails  ghost-white  in  the  eerie  'tween  lights, 
glided  slowly  and  silently  on  the  last  soft 
air  from  seaward  towards  the  harbor  mouth. 

[2] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

The  head  and  guernseyed  shoulders  of  a  man 
protruded  from  the  square  hatch  of  her  fore- 
peak,  smoke  from  his  pipe  drifting  aloft  in 
irresolute  spirals.  On  the  deck  aft  by  the 
tiny  steering-well  another  figure  lay  recum- 
bent, bare  arms  crossed  behind  head,  bare 
legs  hanging  overside  towards  the  cool 
water  drifting  slowly  by.  A  third  man  sat 
in  the  steering- well,  the  tiller  beneath  his  el- 
bow. He  glanced  aloft  at  the  scarcely  draw- 
ing sails,  then  over  at  the  gliding  water  along- 
side, and  stifled  a  yawn. 

"Whee-ew,  whee-ew,"  he  whistled  softly. 
"Scarcely  a  breath,  Pat.'* 

The  man  addressed  turned  lazily  over 
upon  his  elbow  and  then  sat  bolt  upright. 
The  light  showed  him  merry  of  face,  with 
curly  hair  and  twinkling  gray  eyes. 

"Always  the  way  with  this  old  tub,"  he 
said,  stretching  himself.  "Either  you  get 
wind  enough  to  blow  the  sticks  out  of  her,  or 
else  it's  dead  flat  calms.  If  I  weren't  a  weak- 
kneed,  easily  persuaded  idiot,  Laurence,  I'd 
ha'  shipped  on  a  luckier  packet  'fore  now." 

Laurence  Averil  laughed.  Dark-skinned 
and  lithe,  he  had  the  clear-cut  features  gen- 
erally termed  "aristocratic"  by  people  who 
have  but  the  vaguest  notion  of  the  meaning 
of  the  word. 

"Nobody  else    'ud  have   you,"  he   said. 

[3] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

"You're  no  good  in  a  boat,  you  lazy  law- 
yer. ' ' 

"Lawyer  be — blowed!  I'm  a  true  sailor, 
every  hair  a  rope  yarn  and  every  drop  of 
blood  in  my  veins  pure  Stockholm  tar.  At 
least,  I  only  want  to  learn  to  *  hand,  reef  and 
steer,  and  ship  a  selvagee.'  I've  got  a  wife 
in  every  port  we  call  at  already,  and  that's 
the  prime  necessity,  as  everybody  knows. 
Now  there,  ashore" — he  waved  his  arm  to- 
wards the  slowly  nearing  harbor  lights — 
* '  there 's  the  dearest  girl  of  all  girls  that  ever 
lived.  The  only  girl  I  ever  really  loved,  she 
is,  and  if  I'd  been  on  any  boat  but  this 
driftin'  old  raft  I'd  have  been  basking  in  the 
light  of  her  smiles  these  two  hours  past. 
What's  time  now?" 

As  if  to  answer  him,  a  little  yacht's  clock 
in  the  cabin  struck  sharply,  * '  ting-ting. ' ' 

"Two  bells — nine  o'clock — and  the  pubs 
shut  at  eleven,  and  we  shan't  be  in  for  an- 
other half -hour  at  this  rate." 

"Pubs?"  Averil  queried.  "What  about 
the  only  girl  you  ever  loved,  then?" 

* '  She 's  in  one,  you  simple-minded  blighter. 
Shouldn't  love  her  half  so  much  else.  She's 
in  the  Badminton,  and  I'm  going  to  rush  for 
a  Scotch  and  soda  dispensed  by  her  fair 
hands  before  I'm  much  older.  I  chucked  our 
last  soda-water  bottle  overboard  passing  the 

[4] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

South  Sands  lightship.  If  I'd  known  how 
long  it  would  be  before  I  got  another,  I'd 
have  put  in  a  farewell  message  to  pa  and  ma 
to  tell  'em. I  was  about  to  die  of  thirst  upon 
the  high  seas,  too." 

1  'And  to  the  only  girl  you  ever  loved  as 
well?" 

"My  faith!  If  I  was  to  start  writing 
farewell  messages  to  all  the  'only  girls'  I've 
ever  loved — and  lost,  drat  'em  all,  the  fickle, 
freckled  jades — I  should  be  at  it  for  weeks, 
till  even  you  got  tired  of  playing  at  Vander- 
decken  in  the  Straits  of  Dover.  I'll  bring 
you  a  wind,  if  whistling '11  do  it." 

He  whistled  shrilly  through  his  teeth.  A 
dull  catspaw  rippled  the  surface  of  the  water 
as  the  night  breeze  came  down  the  valley  off 
the  land. 

"There  you  are.  What  would  you  do 
without  me,  you  sucking  financier?" 

"Jib  sheets,"  Averil  called,  and  the  man 
forward,  leaping  on  deck,  flattened  the  loose 
headsails  as  the  breeze — sweet  with  sugges- 
tion of  hayfields  ashore — reached  the  little 
vessel.  She  heeled  to  it,  coming  round  with 
a  graceful  sweep;  the  soft  ripple  of  water 
along  her  sides  became  a  rising  hiss,  and  the 
skeleton  pier  works  to  the  right  began  to 
slide  rapidly  past  between  them  and  the 
lighted  town. 

[5] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

The  piers  foreshortened,  became  end  on, 
and  the  harbor  entrance  opened;  but  Lau- 
rence Averil  stood  on  his  course  until  they 
were  well  astern.  Then  at  his  cry  of  "Lee 
oh!"  the  yacht  flew  up  into  the  wind  in  an- 
swer to  the  depressed  tiller,  her  sails,  re- 
leased from  pressure,  shaking  and  flapping 
briskly.  Pat  Dwyer,  his  laziness  vanished, 
tumbled  anyhow  into  the  steering  well,  throw- 
ing loose  the  taut  jib  sheet  and  hauling  rap- 
idly on  the  other  as  he  did  so.  The  man  for- 
ward cleared  the  heel  of  the  jib  over  the 
staysail,  and  the  boat  was  about,  curtseying 
lightly  as  she  gathered  way  into  the  harbor. 

"Goes  about  like  a  top,"  her  owner  said 
proudly. 

"Gar'n."  Dwyer  mocked  him.  "One 
idea'd  old  cuckoo,  you  are.  Now  there's  that 
very  thing — going  about.  In  your  darned 
twopenny-ha'penny  old  tub  going  about 
quickly 's  a  virtue.  Whereas  if  I  hint  that  I 
too  can  enjoy  going  off  on  a  fresh  course, 
then  I'm  a  Reuben,  unstable  as  water,  and 
I  shall  not  excel."  His  voice  took  on  the 
sing-song  whine  that  in  some  quarters  is  con- 
sidered a  truly  religious  adjunct  to  quota- 
tions from  Scripture.  "Here's  the  harbor  at 
last.  Luxon,  ahoy!" 

"Sir,"  came  from  forward. 

"When  we're  anchored  I  want  you  ready 

[6] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

to  put  me  ashore — for  letters."  The  man's 
grin  was  hidden  behind  the  mast.  "I  am 
expecting  urgent  business  letters  here,  and 
delay  might  prove  to  be  fatal.  Then  you  will 
return  and  help  Mr.  Averil  snug  down  for 
the  night.  I  will  now  go  below  and  array 
myself — to  meet  the  Dover  post-master." 

He  dived  into  the  little  cabin.  Laurence 
Averil  stooped  his  head  and  spoke  feelingly. 

"You've  a  cheek  of  ringing  brass,  if  you 
like,  Pat  Dwyer.  Aren't  you  going  to  help 
stow  sails?" 

"I  am  not,  dear  one.  The  mariner  from 
toil  released  will  joyously  carouse  ashore.  If 
you'd  come  I'd  wait  for  you,  but  you  won't. 
You'll  tidy  up  your  beloved  boat,  and  then 
you  will  gracefully  recline  on  deck  and  sur- 
vey the  peaceful  scene,  uplifting  your  great 
soul  to  meet  the  moonshine — to  which,  me- 
thinks,  it  is  somewhat  akin.  You  will  also 
endeavor  to  detect  the  smell  of  roses  on  the 
balmy  night  air,  and  kid  yourself  you  have 
a  poet's  mind  attuned  to  all  sweet  nature. 
I  haven't  any  soul  at  all.  I've  got  a  great 
and  consuming  thirst  that  I  wouldn't  sell  for 
half  a  quid,  and  I'm  going  ashore  to  do  it 
justice." 

"There's  whisky  on  board,"  Laurence 
grumbled.  "Don't  see  why  you  want  to  go 
ashore." 

[7] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

"  A  quarter  of  a  bottle — and  no  soda.  "Wah, 
great  chief,  the  heart  of  the  paleface  is  down- 
cast because  of  the  shortage  in  the  com- 
missariat." He  emerged  from  the  cabin, 
struggling  with  a  recalcitrant  collar  stud. 
"Besides,  is  whisky  all?  What  of  Love,  my 
poet?  I  want  to  bask  in  the  smiles  of  Cissie 
at  the  Badminton — unless  she's  got  the  sack 
by  this  time.  Perhaps  she  has,  alas! 
Haven't  seen  her  since  last  September.  Ah 
me !  'Tis  a  world  of  fleeting  glories.  Never 
mind.  Dare  say  if  she's  gone  there'll  be 
somebody  there  who'll  listen  to  the  outpour- 
ings of  a  virgin  heart.  When  are  you  going 
to  anchor?" 

"Now,  and  here."  He  raised  his  voice. 
"Anchor,  Luxon."  The  chain  slid  out  with 
a  rattle  and  whirr.  "Get  the  topsail  off 
her." 

Dwyer  protested.  "Am  I  to  wait  till 
youVe  got  the  sails  stowed?" 

"Can't  leave  her  like  this.  We'll  get  the 
mainsail  and  topsail  down  and  then  you  can 
go.  I'll  get  in  the  headsails  myself.  Why 
not  get  the  Berthon  overside  meanwhile?" 
Aided  by  the  man,  he  set  himself  to  lower 
away  the  mainsail,  while  Dwyer  dragged  a 
shapeless  crumple  of  iron  and  canvas  from 
off  the  deck  into  the  water,  where  it  floated 
hazardously.  Holding  by  the  main  rigging, 

[8] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

he  jumped  up  and  down  upon  the  folded 
bottom  boards  that  projected  from  its  center 
until  the  deeply  wrinkled  mass  flipped  out- 
wards from  under  his  feet  into  the  semblance 
of  a  clumsy  boat.  Making  her  fast,  he  scram- 
bled on  deck,  threw  paddles  and  rowlocks 
into  her,  and  went  below  to  assume  his  coat. 

When  he  came  on  deck  again  the  mainsail 
lay  along  the  boom,  strapped  by  wide  canvas 
tiebands  into  a  shapely  roll,  and  the  yachts- 
man knelt  by  the  bulwarks  to  steady  the 
dinghy  as  he  stepped  down  into  her. 

"  Matches  and  bread.  Is  that  all  we  want, 
Laurence?"  he  asked. 

"Any  of  your  stores  short,  Luxon?" 

"Oil's  rayther  low,  sir." 

"Bother!  Stinking  stuff!  Chuck  the  tin 
in,  then.  I've  got  her."  He  held  to  the 
yacht's  rigging  while  the  man  fetched  the 
can.  "You  can  see  to  the  marketing  when 
we  get  ashore  and  bring  the  stuff  back  with 
you  now.  I  shall  be  down  at  eleven.  That 
suit  you,  Laurence?" 

Averil  nodded.  "Ay,"  he  assented,  busy- 
ing himself  with  the  waterproof  cover  of  the 
mainsail.  "Keep  sober,  and  don't  let  any  of 
your  girls  run  away  with  you." 

"'Twill  be  a  struggle.  Push  off,  Luxon." 
The  boat,  impelled  by  short  choppy  strokes, 
jerked  its  way  like  a  great  water-beetle  to- 

[9] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

wards  the  pier,  Dwyer  sitting,  knees  and  nose 
together,  in  her  stern. 

Left  to  himself,  Laurence  Averil  finished 
covering  the  mainsail,  and  then,  going  for- 
ward, lowered  jib  and  staysail.  Following 
on  the  heat  of  the  day,  the  dew  was  heavy 
and  the  sails  too  wet  for  stowing.  So,  ar- 
ranging them  on  the  foredeck  to  dry  in  the 
coming  morning's  sun,  he  went  below,  lighted 
a  lamp,  and,  filling  his  pipe,  sat  down  upon 
one  of  the  narrow  cabin  lockers  that  served 
as  seats  by  day  and  beds  by  night.  Being 
short  of  matches,  he  used  a  spill  of  paper, 
torn  from  an  old  and  crumpled  letter,  to  light 
his  pipe.  Half  the  sheet  remained,  and  he 
re-read  it  by  the  light  of  the  swinging  lamp. 
"Should  always  have  wished  myself,"  the 
last  sentence  from  the  destroyed  page  con- 
cluded, and  then  went  on : 

"You  know,  my  boy,  that  although  there 
is  no  probability  of  the  necessity  ever  arising 
for  you  to  earn  your  own  living,  it  has  al- 
ways been  my  desire  that  you  should  attach 
yourself  to  a  profession.  I  need  not  remind 
you  of  the  disadvantages  of  idleness.  Per- 
haps I  am  inclined  to  lay  undue  stress  upon 
this,  but  you  must  remember  that  my  posi- 
tion as  well  as  your  own  is  entirely  due  to 
a  lifetime  of  severe  application  and  unweary- 
[10] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

ing  perseverance.  I  am  happy  to  say  that 
you  have  never  given  me  any  anxiety  what- 
ever. Even  during  these  past  two  years, 
during  which  your  lack  of  definite  occupation 
might  well  have  thrown  you  into  any  of  the 
temptations  that  beset  the  path  of  a  young 
man,  I  have  no  reason  to  be  anything  but 
proud  of  your  temperate  habit  of  life,  but  I 
would  nevertheless  again  urge  upon  you  the 
desirability  of  choosing  a  profession.  You 
already  know  my  own  wish  that  you  should 
be  called  to  the  Bar,  but  that  choice  I  wish 
to  leave  unreservedly  in  your  own  hands,  and 
am,  my  dear  Laurence,  always  your  affec- 
tionate father, 

" HERMAN  AVERIL." 

He  turned  the  scrap  of  paper  over  and  over 
in  his  hands.  "Ye-es,  I  suppose  it'll  be  the 
Bar,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Pity  I  didn't 
know  my  own  inclinations  ten  years  ago. 
Then  it  might  have  been  the  Navy.  That's 
the  worst  of  not  belonging  to  a  Service  fam- 
ily. Heigh-ho!"  He  tore  the  letter  across 
and  across  at  its  well-worn  creases,  and, 
going  on  deck,  tossed  the  scraps  of  paper 
overboard. 

The  moon  was  now  high,  all  the  harbor 
softly  bathed  in  its  radiance.  Against  the 
Admiralty  pier  the  funnels  of  a  cross-channel 

[11] 


The    COMING    BACK     of 

boat  shone  staring  white,  save  where  at  their 
bases  deck  lights  tinged  them  with  an  added 
yellow  glow.  The  noise  of  escaping  steam 
through  them,  carried  by  the  still  water, 
thrilled  the  deck  on  which  he  stood,  and  while 
he  watched  the  boat  train  crawled  upon  the 
pier,  its  slow  pace  and  the  yellow  lighted 
spots  upon  its  sides  suggestive  of  some  giant 
caterpillar.  It  stopped,  and  a  bustle  of  em- 
barkation broke  out  upon  the  still  evening; 
hurrying  steps  clattered  across  the  gang- 
ways, and  the  great  derricks  commenced  their 
swaying  work  of  swinging  luggage  aboard. 
A  smaller  intermediate  cargo  boat  moored 
alongside  boomed  a  long  deep  note  from  her 
siren  that  echoed  along  the  cliffs  and  up  the 
valley  behind  the  town.  In  the  silence  that 
followed  it,  the  sound  of  descending  feet  upon 
the  pier-steps  was  clearly  audible,  and  Luxon 
came  rowing  back  to  the  yacht. 

Averil  caught  the  painter  as  he  came  along- 
side and  took  some  parcels  from  him. 
'  *  Leave  the  rowlocks  and  paddles  in  her, ' '  he 
said.  ' '  She  '11  lie  alongside  till  you  fetch  Mr. 
Dwyer" ;  and  then,  again  going  below,  he  took 
a  volume  of  Emerson's  essays  from  the  little 
bookshelf  and  settled  down  to  read. 

The  book  opened  at  the  essay  on  "  Hero- 
ism," the  first  words  on  which  his  eyes  fell 
being  perhaps  the  bravest  ever  written: 
[12] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"But  that  which  takes  my  fancy  most,  in 
the  heroic  class,  is  the  good  humor  and  hilar- 
ity they  exhibit.  It  is  a  height  to  which 
common  duty  can  very  well  attain,  to  suffer 
and  to  dare  with  solemnity.  But  .  .  .  the 
great  will  not  condescend  to  take  anything 
seriously;  all  must  be  gay  as  the  song  of  a 
canary,  though  it  were  the  building  of 
cities.  ..." 

The  words  came  warmly  to  him,  sharply 
contrasting  as  they  did  with  the  somewhat 
sententious  note  of  self-conscious  prosperity 
struck  by  his  father's  letter.  The  sense  of 
contrast  was  so  strong  as  almost  to  faintly 
accuse  him  of  disloyalty.  He  closed  the  book, 
his  fingers  between  its  pages,  and  gazed 
through  the  cabin  doorway  at  the  lighted  har- 
bor, silent  in  meditation. 

The  words  lingered  in  his  mind.  Our  Eng- 
lish temperament,  for  all  its  strength,  was 
too  heavy — too  dull.  It  took  this  fiery  Amer- 
ican, product  of  the  best  of  our  old  race  trans- 
planted to  the  dry  and  nervous  atmosphere 
of  a  great  new  country,  to  call  so  clearly  to 
both  sides  of  the  emotions  of  youth,  full  as 
they  are  of  yearnings  for  the  great  unknown, 
of  joy  and  laughter  in  the  present  hour. 

"Gay  as  the  song  of  a  canary — even  the 
building  of  cities."  He  pictured  for  a  mo- 
ment his  father's  austere  life,  its  sternly  un- 
[13] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

varying  course,  its  respectable  observance  of 
the  services  of  religion  and  society,  and  again 
the  thought  of  disloyalty  arose  in  him.  He 
sighed,  reopened  his  book,  and  read  on 
quietly,  his  mood  of  contemplation  past. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Dwyer's  hail  sounded 
from  the  pier,  and  Luxon  's  bare  feet  paddled 
across  the  deck.  Laurence  heard  him  get  into 
the  dinghy  and  push  off,  and  within  two  min- 
utes his  friend  was  aboard,  noisily  pleased 
with  all  the  world. 

" Stuffy  old  freak,"  he  said,  in  scorn. 
"Reading — on  a  night  like  this!  Having 
slain  my  thirst,  my  soul  begins  to  revive — 
I've  got  one,  after  all,  it  seems.  Here's  let- 
ters for  you — one's  a  wire."  He  threw  two 
envelopes  across  the  cabin.  "Where's  the 
whisky  ?  I  want  a  nightcap : 

"  A  grand  piano  underneath  the  bough, 
A  drop  of  Scotch,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  thou 
Beside  me  singing  in  the  wilderness." 

I  am  moved  by  the  moonlight  to  poesy — 
What's  wrong,  man?" 

For  Laurence  had  thrown  the  telegram 
upon  the  table,  and  with  a  face  of  horror  was 
reading  the  letter. 

"The   guvnor's   dead,"   he   said   huskily. 
"Pat,  look  at  this."    He  held  out  the  sheet 
of  paper  with  a  shaking  hand.    "What  in  the 
name  of  Heaven  am  I  to  do  I" 
[14] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Dwyer,  sobered  at  once,  glanced  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  letter,  and  then  back  at  his  friend, 
leaning  back  against  the  cushions,  his  face 
white  and  terrified.  He  pushed  his  own  glass 
over  to  him. 

"Drink  this,"  he  commanded  sharply,  the 
merriment  gone  from  his  voice.  "And  pull 
yourself  together.  Keep  a  stiff  lip,  man;" 
for  the  first  words  of  the  letter  had  shown 
him  how  serious  matters  were. 

The  signature  was  that  of  Herman  Averil's 
managing  clerk — the  date  two  days  before. 

* '  DEAR  ME.  LAURENCE,  ' '  it  ran, — '  *  I  hardly 
know  how  to  write  you,  we  are  all  so  terrified 
and  upset.  The  telegram  will  break  the  news 
to  you  somewhat,  but  it  is  far  worse  than 
that.  Your  father  died  by  his  own  hand.  He 
shot  himself  in  the  office  here.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  horrified  and  upset  we  all  are,  and 
we  fear  that  business  affairs  are  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it — that  matters  with  the  firm  are  not 
at  all  as  they  should  be.  .  .  .  " 

The  letter,  hastily  written,  with  erasures 
and  smears  on  every  page,  was  itself  a  suf- 
ficient symptom  of  violent  agitation.  Dwyer 
ran  his  eye  down  over  its  pages,  noting  a  line 
here  and  there, — "Trust  funds  appear  to  be 
missing" — "already  hints  at  misappropria- 
[15] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

tion  have  come  to  my  ears ' ' — and  sorrow  for 
his  friend  made  him  look  up  at  Laurence 
again,  kindly  sympathy  in  his  glance. 

''What  am  I  to  do?"  was  all  Laurence 
could  say. 

' '  Drink  that  whisky  first.  Drink  it,  I  say, ' ' 
— and  Averil  obeyed  in  silence.  "Now 
change  into  your  shore  duds  and  catch  the 
next  train  to  town.  There 's  one  at  midnight. 
Where's  a  time-table?"  He  rummaged  the 
bookshelf.  "No,  twelve  fifteen.  Then  you'll 
be  on  the  spot  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Go 
to  my  governor  before  you  do  anything  else. 
You'll  want  a  lawyer's  help  in  this.  The 
boat?  Never  mind  about  her.  I'll  run  her 
back  to  the  Island  and  leave  Luxon  in  charge, 
and  skip  back  to  town  soon's  I  can.  Now 
hurry,  hurry,  hurry, — you've  only  half  an 
hour." 

He  helped  Laurence  to  dress,  and  sent  him 
off  in  the  dinghy  with  a  warm  handclasp  of 
farewell.  ' '  Good-by,  old  man.  Buck  up,  and 
pull  yourself  together.  I'll  be  with  you  'fore 
the  end  of  the  week.  Good-by." 

He  watched  him  up  the  pier-steps  in  the 
moonlight,  and  returned  to  the  cabin.  The 
letters  and  wire  still  lay  on  the  table.  He 
picked  the  latter  up.  "Your  father  danger- 
ously ill  no  hope  return  at  once,"  it  read,  and 
Dwyer  sat  down  upon  his  bunk,  the  full  con- 
[16] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

sciousness  of  all  that  this  would  mean  only 
coming  to  him  slowly. 

1 '  Poor  old  Laurence, ' '  he  said.  '  *  Poor  old 
pal.  My  word !  this  means  absolute  blue  ruin 
for  him — the  utter  smash  of  all  things.  He'll 
be  broke  to  the  world ;  and  he 's  never  wanted 
a  penny  in  his  life,  and  doesn't  know  how  to 
earn  one ! ' ' 

He  shivered,  and  went  to  bed. 


[17] 


CHAPTER  II 


CRUEL  as  the  shock  and  horror  of  his  father's 
suicide  had  been  to  Laurence  Averil,  it  was 
as  nothing  to  the  shame  that  followed  in  the 


public  unraveling  of  the  dead  man's  business 
affairs. 

The  report  of  the  pistol  that  had  startled 
his  office  staff  and  sent  his  pale-faced  clerks 
hither  and  thither  to  confusedly  announce 
that  " Averil 's  had  gone  under,"  and  that  the 
apparently  prosperous  life  of  the  founder  of 
the  firm  had  ended  in  failure  and  self- 
destruction,  had  been  but  a  prelude  to  the 
[18] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

common  knowledge  that  the  dead  man  had 
sunk  from  legitimate  speculation  to  busi- 
ness actions  as  shady  as  the  commonest 
of  theft. 

Of  handsome  appearance  and  suave  man- 
ner, he  had  been  generally  and  highly  re- 
spected. To  all  appearance,  he  had  been  a 
man  of  the  highest  integrity,  punctiliously 
honorable  in  business  affairs,  and  noted  for 
large  and  unostentatious  charities  in  his  pri- 
vate life.  No  breath  of  scandal  had  ever 
touched  his  name.  To  such  men  trust  is  read- 
ily accorded,  and  until  the  day  of  his  death 
Herman  Averil  had  enjoyed  the  trust  and 
respect  of  all  who  knew  hirn. 

The  immense  sums  he  had  scattered  like 
chaff  in  his  lately  born  mania  for  speculation 
had  in  most  cases  been  intrusted  to  him  with 
but  the  merest  forms  of  safeguard,  and  the 
details  of  shameless  misappropriation  of 
trust  funds,  of  the  coldly  conceived  ruin  of 
hundreds  who  had  trusted  him,  that  trans- 
pired in  open  court  after  his  death,  made 
Laurence  hot  with  shame  for  his  father's 
memory. 

The  wretched  man  had  stopped  at  nothing. 
Probably  the  whole  history  of  his  financial 
fall  was  never  brought  to  light,  so  skillfully 
had  he  covered  his  track  in  the  earlier  months 
of  his  failing  fortunes.  Shameless  lies  had 
[19] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

concealed  shameful  theft;  crimes  had  been 
committed  to  cover  crimes.  No  less  than 
three  forgeries  were  proved  to  have  been 
committed  by  him. 

So  far  as  his  books  and  other  evidence 
showed,  the  firm  had  done  business  success- 
fully and  honorably  until  three  years  before 
its  founder's  death.  Then  some  petty  Cen- 
tral American  revolution  had  shaken  the 
credit  of  an  engineering  association  in  which 
Herman  Averil  had  been  deeply  interested. 
Even  then  there  had  been  every  opportunity 
for  retrenchment  and  a  profitable  carrying 
on  of  the  business;  but,  fatally  misled  by  a 
carelessly  worded  code  telegram,  he  had 
plunged  deeply  in  just  such  a  purely  specula- 
tive affair  as  he  had  a  thousand  times  warned 
his  own  clients  against  touching. 

The  speculation  failed,  and  the  man,  lack- 
ing the  courage  to  own  defeat,  had  deliber- 
ately set  out  to  gamble  with  funds  intrusted 
to  him  for  investment.  Once  or  twice  lucky 
coups  brought  him  to  within  a  few  hun- 
dred pounds  of  the  financial  position  he  had 
enjoyed  before  that  unlucky  plunge,  but  the 
final  small  speculation  needed  to  gain  those 
hundreds  and  his  lost  honor  had  invariably 
failed,  and  he  had  again  and  again  been  con- 
demned to  enter  the  gambling  lists  for  an- 
other losing  fight  with  Fate. 
[20] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

He  had  perhaps  one  of  the  clearest,  keenest 
brains  in  the  financial  world,  and  his  strug- 
gles were  magnificent.  Thousands  of  pounds 
passed  through  his  hands  to  this  speculation 
or  that,  scattering,  grouping,  withdrawn 
for  reinvestment,  never  for  a  moment  lying 
idle.  It  was  as  though  the  man  felt  that  it 
was  the  last  struggle  in  which  he  would  em- 
bark, and  he  speculated  with  unparalleled 
daring,  flinging  his  golden  weapons  here  and 
there  with  the  masterful  skill  and  the  cool, 
calculating  recklessness  that  makes  empires 
— or  destroys  them. 

But  his  nerve  was  gone.  Though  scarcely 
a  line  on  his  broad  white  forehead  told  of  the 
struggle,  in  his  heart  was  cold,  deadly  fear — 
fear  of  exposure,  of  any  one  little  slip  that 
should  show  the  world  his  real  position.  He 
had  gone,  apparently  smiling  and  quiet,  to 
the  very  execution  of  forgery,  and  the  crime 
went  unchallenged;  but  if  any  of  his  clients 
or  clerks  could  have  had  a  moment's  glimpse 
of  Herman  Averil  in  his  private  office  after 
their  inspection  of  his  handiwork,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  the  onlooker's  belief  in  his  merits 
would  not  have  been  severely  shaken. 
Though  even  when  entirely  alone  the  man  was 
calm-eyed  and  quiet,  the  refreshment  his 
steady  hand  conveyed  to  his  firm  lips  was 
spirit — raw  spirit — and  he  drank  it,  in  these 
[21] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

his  worst  hours,  as  though  it  were  pure  water 
from  the  brook. 

At  the  last,  when  detection  was  inevitable, 
he  had  gone  to  his  gun-maker  and  bought  the 
revolver  that  was  to  end  his  days  as  calmly 
as  he  had  gone  to  church  the  day  before.  Not 
a  twitching  muscle  nor  a  shake  of  his  voice 
was  perceived  by  the  dealer,  who,  knowing 
him  well,  had  hastened  personally  to  serve  so 
highly  respected  a  client. 

He  had  chatted  to  the  man  for  a  while  of 
the  prospects  of  sport  in  the  following  au- 
tumn; had  talked  of  "My  son  Laurence's 
holiday  expedition  to  Damascus" — the  os- 
tensible reason  for  the  purchase  of  the 
weapon;  had  been  driven  to  his  office  in  the 
city;  had  walked  quietly  to  his  own  private 
room,  and  thence,  without  as  much  as  a  fare- 
well letter  to  his  only  son,  Herman  Averil 
had  gone  to  his  place  in  eternity. 

Inquiry  into  his  affairs  showed  nothing 
but  confusion — confusion  more  confounded 
everywhere  as  the  search  proceeded.  Misap- 
propriation of  trust  funds  had  supplied  most 
of  the  material  for  his  final  two  years  of  reck- 
less gambling,  but  he  had  no  more  confined 
himself  to  one  means  of  raising  money  than 
he  had  limited  his  methods  of  scattering  it 
again. 

He  had  acted  behind  the  scenes  in  the  flota- 
[22] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

tion  of  two  or  three  fraudulent  companies; 
one,  a  barefaced  attempt  to  raise  money  on 
a  barren  patch  of  useless  land  in  the  south 
of  Iceland,  as  recently  as  a  month  before  his 
death. 

Even  had  the  name  of  the  dead  man  ap- 
peared on  the  prospectus,  it  is  more  than 
doubtful  if  clients  would  have  been  found  suf- 
ficiently confiding  to  invest  in  such  a  wild-cat 
venture. 

The  company  was  a  mere  empty  sham,  de- 
vised with  calculating  cruelty  solely  for  the 
purpose  of  ruining  one  man,  an  old  retired 
sea-captain,  once  master  of  a  steamer  trading 
from  Scotland  to  Reykjavik,  and  now  living 
at  a  tiny  Somersetshire  seaport.  Averil  had 
met  him  when  staying  at  Minehead  two  years 
before,  and  found  him  obsessed  by  a  single 
idea.  The  old  man  had  seen  the  sulphur 
works  of  Iceland  in  his  earlier  days,  and  the 
lying  prospectus  with  its  bogus  list  of  di- 
rectors was  aimed  at  his  little  capital  alone. 
He  invested  ten  thousand  pounds  in  deben- 
tures— mortgages  on  the  most  worthless 
bleak  wilderness  in  that  generally  unproduc- 
tive island — and  a  few  hundreds  in  ordinary 
stock. 

When  the  crash  came,  he  with  hundreds  of 
others  was  ruined  hopelessly,  and  after  wan- 
dering, a  plaintive,  shaking  wreck,  about  the 
[23] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

courts  during  the  inquiry,  went  back  to  his 
little  home  and  died,  leaving  a  daughter  to 
seek  her  own  living  in  a  world  not  over-kind 
to  the  untrained  single  woman  worker. 

Other  coups  of  Herman  AveriPs  had 
brought  him  greater  gain.  It  is  doubtful  if 
more  than  half  of  the  ten  thousand  and  odd 
pounds  had  gone  into  his  pocket.  In  a  hun- 
dred other  ways  he  had  ruined  more  victims, 
executed  more  brilliantly  daring  acts  of 
criminality ;  but  nothing  more  clearly  showed 
his  singleness  of  purpose,  his  relentless  dis- 
regard of  the  ill-fortune  of  others. 

Half  a  dozen  conversations  with  a  chance 
acquaintance  on  a  holiday,  and  in  his  hour  of 
need  he  could  find  time  amid  all  the  tangled 
skein  of  greater  affairs  to  stoop  to  this  little 
quarry.  His  memory  never  failed  him.  The 
old  sailor's  jeering  at  the  primitive  methods 
of  the  Icelandic  sulphur  miners,  his  labori- 
ously acquired  knowledge  of  the  sulphur 
market — his  favorite  themes  of  conversation 
— were  all  committed  to  memory;  and  when 
he  required  the  old  man's  savings  he  obtained 
the  necessary  information,  bought  the  three 
wretchedest  deserted  farms  he  could  find  in 
the  syssel,  or  parish,  of  Langholt-by-Dyrho- 
laey,  prepared  his  prospectus,  and  robbed  his 
victim  ruthlessly  and  with  certainty. 

Greater  frauds,  with  farther-reaching  con- 
[24] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

sequences,  occupied  most  of  the  time  during 
the  inquiry,  but  the  memory  of  the  pitiful 
questionings  of  the  old  ruined  sailor  lingered 
in  Laurence  Averil's  mind  for  years. 

Probably  because  it  had  been  schemed  to- 
wards the  end  of  his  life,  his  father  had  taken 
but  little  trouble  to  disguise  the  dastardly 
nature  of  the  affair,  and  no  particulars  were 
lacking.  Mainly  at  the  request  of  the  pur- 
chaser of  the  shares,  the  vendor  of  the  prop- 
erty— himself  an  intimate  friend  of  the  dead 
man's — was  called,  and  his  evidence  was  con- 
clusive. 

"I  sold  the  three  farms  to  the  deceased  for 
twenty  pounds,"  he  said.  ''They  are  called 
Uthlid,  Haukadal,  and  Sveinardal.  No,  there 
is  no  sulphur  on  them — never  was,  and  never 
will  be.  He  told  me  he  wanted  them  because 
they  lay  across  the  line  of  a  projected  road 
between  Langholt  and  Asaa.  He  said  he  was 
going  to  give  the  land  to  the  two  parishes  on 
condition  that  they  built  the  road.  Farms? 
Yes,  they  were  farms  once — that's  how  they 
come  to  have  names;  but  now  they're  cov- 
ered by  a  skin  of  lava  from  six  to  six-and- 
twenty  feet  deep,  that  came  down  in  the  great 
1783  eruption.  There  are  a  few  patches  of 
the  original  ground  uncovered,  but  they  are 
surrounded  by  the  lava  and  are  difficult  to 
get  at,  even  if  it  were  worth  while  to  try. 
[25] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

They  were  never  good  ground — broken  black 
shale  with  a  little  summer  pasture  on  them  at 
the  best ;  bad  even  for  Iceland  farms — and  on 
the  good  ones  they  think  nothing  of  feeding 
their  ponies  on  fish  heads  and  seaweed  in 
the  winter.  Sulphur?  No,  not  a  speck. 
Why,  the  volcanic  deposits  aren't  more  than 
thirty  feet  deep  anywhere,  and,  as  I  tell  you, 
they  overlie  black,  poor,  shaly  land.  Besides, 
they're  recent — just  lava  that  overflowed 
about  a  hundred  years  ago — no  good  to  man 
or  beast.  Do  I  know  Iceland?  Yes,  well. 
Lived  there  fifteen  years,  and  have  had  busi- 
ness dealings  with  the  place  for  the  last  thirty. 
I  live  at  Leith — am  a  fish  buyer  and  trawler 
owner.  How  did  I  buy  this  land?  I  didn't 
buy  it.  I  bought  some  land  close  to  Langholt 
village,  and  had  this  thrown  in,  because  there 
was  some  doubt  about  my  actual  boundary 
where  a  little  lava  had  overflowed  the  edge 
of  my  ground.  There  was  a  big  boulder  in 
the  center  of  the  Uthlid  ground  which  the 
eruption  didn't  cover,  and  I  had  this  aching 
desolation  thrown  into  my  purchase,  so  that  I 
could  have  a  definite  landmark  to  swear  to. 
That's  all.  Is  the  ground  worth  anything? 
No,  not  a  farthing  a  square  mile." 

The  old  sailor  despairingly  left  the  court 
and  went  to  his  ruined  home  to  die.    He  was 
buried  almost  before  the  official  receiver  had 
[26] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

elucidated  the  whole  of  the  facts  of  the  more 
important  affairs  entangled  in  the  Averil  fail- 
ure. To  officials  engaged  in  examining  the 
keen  business  men  who,  despite  their  acumen, 
had  yet  been  entrapped  by  Herman  Averil's 
specious  dexterity,  this  one  case  seemed  un- 
important; but  it  was  long  before  Laurence, 
though  beggared  himself,  forgot  the  despair- 
ing eyes  and  shaking  hands  of  his  father's 
unhappy  victim. 

His  own  position  was  hopeless  enough. 
Although  of  average  intelligence,  endowed 
with  a  receptive  mind  and  a  retentive  mem- 
ory, he  knew  no  business,  had  learnt  no  pro- 
fession. He  had  been  through  Harrow  and 
Merton  as  many  of  the  sons  of  our  richer 
men  of  the  middle  classes  do  go.  Having  no 
need  for  application,  he  had  never  been  a 
reading  man  in  the  severer  sense  of  the  word. 
His  performances  were  creditable — nothing 
more. 

Tall  and  lean,  he  was  as  near  physically 
perfect  as  a  man  of  twenty-four  should  be, 
and,  thanks  perhaps  to  his  taste  for  simple 
living  and  the  abhorrence  of  excess  he  had 
inherited  from  his  iron  father,  he  enjoyed 
the  riotously  perfect  health  that  is  the  birth- 
right of  clean-lived  English  youth. 

His  first  offer  of  employment  came  from 
his  father's  friend,  Clement  Harper,  the 
[27] 


vendor  of  the  Iceland  property.  Passing  his 
hand  through  the  young  man's  arm  as  they 
left  the  court,  he  did  his  best  to  comfort  him. 

"It's  all  no  affair  of  yours  at  all,  man," 
he  said.  ' '  Unto  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion's  a  cruel  doctrine,  I'm  thinking.  Come 
you  and  have  some  dinner  with  me  to-night. ' ' 

Laurence,  lonely  and  wretched,  was  moved 
to  the  heart  by  the  roughly  spoken  kindness, 
and  gladly  accepted  the  invitation.  Over  the 
coffee  cups  Harper  made  his  offer. 

"I've  worrk  for  ye,  lad,  if  ye '11  take  it.  Ye 
can  come  and  learrn  to  keep  a  fish-buyer's 
books,  and  be  a  bookkeeper  to  the  end  of 
your  life,  if  ye  will.  Or  I've  mair  than  that 
for  ye,  if  ye  can  stand  the  roughest,  cruellest 
life  on  airth.  Will  ye  go  to  sea  on  a  trawler 
for  a  couple  of  years,  Laurie,  and  learrn  the 
business  from  the  bottom?  Ye '11  see  how 
the  worrk 's  done,  and  where  the  boats  go, 
and  how  the  trawler  skippers  worrk  their 
shares  of  the  catch.  Learrn  it  all,  lad,  until 
ye  can  worrk  a  trawler  yersel ',  and  then  come 
back  and  help  me  wi'  the  business":  and 
Laurence,  inclined  from  childhood  for  the 
sea,  gladly  accepted  the  offer. 


[28] 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  business  of  the  courts  and  the  arrange- 
ment of  his  own  private  affairs  detained 
Laurence  in  London  for  another  couple  of 
months,  and  it  was  late  in  September  when 
he  arrived  at  Leith.  He  went  straight  to 
Harper's  offices  on  the  Fish  Quay.  Clem- 
ent Harper  received  him  cordially,  a  little 
brusquely  perhaps,  owing  to  the  exigencies  of 
business,  but  with  a  warm  handgrip  and 
words  of  encouragement. 

' 'Glad  to  see  ye,  lad,"  he  said.  "Ye '11  sail 
on  Wednesday,  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
Have  ye  a  sea  kit ! " 

Laurence  nodded.  On  the  sale  of  his  little 
yacht  he  had  retained  all  such  articles  of 
clothing — guernseys,  oilskins,  sou 'westers, 
and  sea-boots — as  he  thought  might  be  of  use 
in  this  new  seafaring  venture. 

1  'That's  well.  The  worrk'll  tear  your  nice 
silk-faced  oilies  to  rags  in  a  couple  of  voy- 
ages, but  they'll  likely  serve  ye  that  long. 
Now  I'm  a  busy  man  until  four  o'clock.  Go 
ye  down  to  the  waterside  and  see  your  new 
craft  for  yourself,  and  come  back  to  me  then. 
Ye '11  stay  with  me  when  ashore  until  ye  can 
[29] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

get  a  room  of  your  own — but  ye '11  not  be 
ashore  much.  The  boat's  called  the  Fairy 
Belle,  and  a  vairy  belle  bateau  ye '11  find  her." 
He  laughed  joyously  at  his  outrageous  pun, 
and  pushed  Laurence  towards  the  door.  ' '  Be 
off  wi'  ye.  I'm  a  busy  man  the  day." 

Accustomed  as  he  had  been  to  the  appear- 
ance of  trawlers  at  sea,  Laurence 's  heart  mis- 
gave him  when  he  looked  down  on  the  dis- 
ordered deck  of  the  Fairy  Belle  from  the 
wharf  side. 

There  are  no  smarter  sailors  in  the  world 
than  the  fishermen  of  the  northern  ports,  and 
when  on  the  great  waters  their  boats  are 
handled  in  a  way  that  can  only  excite  admira- 
tion from  the  yachtsman  who  knows  his 
work.  Patched  though  their  sails  may  be  and 
rough  their  gear,  never  a  line  is  out  of  place, 
and  the  picturesque  coloring  of  their  stained 
canvas  only  emphasizes  the  fact  that  every 
sail  is  doing  its  utmost  work  and  doing  it 
well.  The  boats,  though  often  old  and  even 
leaky,  miracles  of  discomfort  and  inconven- 
ience, are  yet  fast,  and,  handled  as  they  are 
by  men  trained  on  them  from  boyhood,  they 
sail  like  yachts — and  racing  yachts  at  that. 
There  is  perhaps  no  lovelier  sight  to  be  seen 
on  our  coasts  than  a  fleet  of  trawlers,  their 
sails  every  shade  of  red  and  yellow  from 
deep  crimsons  and  tawny  siennas  to  sul- 
[30] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

phur  and  gold  and  cream,  twisting  and  cir- 
cling round  each  other  over  the  trawling 
grounds. 

But  in  harbor,  where  a  yacht  is  at  her  trim- 
mest and  cleanest,  the  slovenly  appearance  of 
the  fishing  vessel  is  painful  to  the  eye.  Her 
unhoused  sails  lie  in  great  heaps  of  sodden 
canvas  about  her  filthy  decks.  Her  open  holds 
exhale  a  most  offensive  odor  of  fish,  and  her 
decks  and  bulwarks  are  foul  with  scales  and 
slime.  Every  rope,  free  from  the  tension  of 
the  fresh  sea  winds,  hangs  slack  and  dejected, 
and  the  whole  vessel  is  a  picture  of  disorder 
and  neglect. 

Laurence  looked  on  the  unsavory  raffle  with 
sore  distaste;  the  rusty,  shabby  stove-pipe 
smoking  above  the  tiny  forecastle ;  the  array 
of  patched  clothing  hung  out  to  dry  on  the 
rigging;  on  a  dirty,  tousle-haired  boy  loung- 
ing by  the  hatch,  smoking  a  short  pipe  and 
spitting  into  the  depths  of  the  hold  from  time 
to  time :  and  when  he  reflected  that  this  was 
to  be  his  home  for  the  next  couple  of  years, 
he  was  sorely  tempted  to  go  back  to  Harper 
and  accept  his  first  contemptuous  offer  of  a 
bookkeeper's  stool.  But  the  strength  of 
mind  that  had  kept  the  father  calm-eyed  and 
quiet  through  those  two  torturing  years  of 
impending  ruin  came  to  his  son's  aid,  and  he 
swung  himself  down  the  iron  ladder  attached 
[31] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

to  the  quayside  and  set  foot  for  the  first  time 
on  the  deck  of  the  Fairy  Belle. 

The  boy  by  the  hatchway  watched  him  sul- 
lenly and  in  silence. 

''Captain  aboard!"  Laurence  asked. 

The  boy  spat  again  down  the  hatch. 

"Na,"  he  said,  without  moving. 

"Mate?" 

"Eh?" 

"Is  the  mate  on  board?"  Laurence  queried 
sharply.  Accustomed  to  ready  obedience  and 
civility  from  his  own  yacht's  crew,  his  tem- 
per was  rising. 

"There's  nae  mate,"  the  boy  said,  in  the 
broadest  of  Lowland  Scotch. 

"Is  anybody  in  charge  of  the  boat,  then?" 

The  boy  stooped  over  the  hatch.  "Jock, 
ye  're  wanted, ' '  he  bawled  down. 

A  growling  answer  came  from  the  darkness 
below ;  the  top  of  a  ladder  leaning  against  the 
side  of  the  hatchway  began  to  shake,  and  two 
great  grimy  hands  ascended  the  rungs,  fol- 
lowed by  a  dirty  hairy  face  beneath  a  slimy 
sou'wester;  and  finally  the  owner  of  hands 
and  face  appeared  on  deck.  Though  a  man  of 
a  good  height  he  was  perhaps  an  inch  shorter 
than  Laurence.  His  shoulders  were  enor- 
mous, and  tended  to  make  his  ungainly  figure 
more  squat  in  appearance  than  it  was  in  real- 
ity. He  was  clothed  in  a  torn  blue  guernsey, 

[32] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

trousers  of  some  dull  red  material,  coarse  as 
army  blanketing,  and  thigh  boots.  He  stared 
at  the  visitor  keenly  from  beneath  shaggy 
yellow  eyebrows. 

1  'What  d'ye  want?"  he  asked  roughly. 

''Are  you  the  mate!"  Laurence  asked. 

"There's  nae  mates  on  trawlers.  I'm 
leadin'  hand:"  and  then  repeated  his  ques- 
tion, "What  d'ye  want!" 

"I'm  from  Harper's,"  Laurence  answered 
to  the  full  as  curtly.  "I'm  going  to  sea  on 
this  boat." 

The  fisherman  spat  on  the  deck.  "We  want 
nae  holiday-makin'  swells  aboard  here,"  he 
said. 

"  I  'm  not  holiday-making.  I  'm  coming  as  a 
hand." 

"Ye?"  The  burly  ruffian  laughed  aloud. 
"Ye  a  hand?"  He  burst  into  a  torrent  of 
Lowland  obscenity  ridiculing  Laurence's  ap- 
pearance from  head  to  foot.  "Ye  white- 
handed  whelp,  d'ye  think  to  fule  me? 

Ye  wharf-loafing,  fo 'castle-robbing  poppy- 
cock; get  off  the  boat,  d'ye  hear,  or  I'll  pitch 
ye  overside." 

Laurence  filled  and  lit  a  pipe,  his  hands 
shaking  with  anger,  the  boy  watching  him 
curiously  the  while. 

Then  he  sat  down  on  the  bulwarks  and 
smoked  silently  until  his  temper  was  in  hand, 
[33] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

and  then,  laying  down  his  pipe,  said  shortly, 
"And  now  get  about  it — this  pitching  me 
overboard. ' ' 

The  bull-necked  leading  hand  rushed  at  him 
with  an  oath,  Laurence  lifting  his  elbows 
clear  of  his  sides  as  the  rush  came.  The  man 
laughed  aloud  as  he  noticed  the  action,  think- 
ing he  meant  to  strike,  and  in  a  moment  his 
arms  were  round  the  younger  man's  waist 
with  a  grip  like  iron. 

But  he  had  reckoned  without  his  host.  Not 
for  nothing  had  those  arms  been  lifted  to 
invite  that  grip.  As  he  straightened  his  back 
to  lift  his  antagonist  from  the  deck,  he  found 
one  of  the  freed  elbows  beneath  his  chin,  the 
other  crooked  behind  his  neck,  the  two  form- 
ing a  cruel  vice  that  bent  him  backwards  and 
backwards  until  a  fall  or  a  broken  neck  was 
inevitable.  To  save  himself  he  released  the 
waist  he  held  between  his  arms,  and  as  he 
staggered  free  he  found  himself  battered  on 
the  mouth  and  beneath  the  chin  by  a  series  of 
short  upward  blows  that  jarred  his  jaws  and 
skull  like  strokes  from  a  trip-hammer.  Again 
he  jumped  back  to  get  room,  receiving  one 
savage,  long-armed  cut  beneath  the  eye  as  he 
went,  and  the  two  men  faced  each  other,  pant- 
ing. 

So  far  all  the  honors  of  the  game  were  with 
Laurence,  but  knowing  that  in  any  lasting 
[34] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

fight  he  was  certain  of  defeat,  he  stood 
quietly,  every  nerve  strung,  thinking  his  very 
best. 

The  rush  came  quickly,  the  fisherman  strik- 
ing heavily  and  quickly,  blows  any  one  of 
which  would  have  knocked  Laurence  to  the 
deck  and  probably  have  stunned  him  had  they 
got  fairly  home.  Unusual  tactics  were  re- 
quired. The  science  of  the  ring  would  be 
childish  folly  on  a  deck  cumbered  with  spars 
and  coils  of  rope,  and  so,  abandoning  all  sci- 
ence or  any  attempt  to  strike  or  guard,  he 
caught  pne  of  the  great  fists  in  his  own  and 
pulled  it  towards  him  suddenly  and  with  all 
his  strength,  leaping  aside  as  he  did  so.  His 
quick  movements,  aided  by  the  initial  impetus 
of  the  rush  and  blow,  pulled  the  man  over 
like  a  falling  tree,  his  head  came  against  the 
bulwarks  with  a  sickening  crash,  and  he  lay 
snoring  and  stunned. 

Even  then  Laurence  took  no  chances.  He 
jumped  on  to  the  broad  back  and  gripped  the 
great  throat  with  both  hands,  thumbs  down- 
ward and  buried  in  the  beard,  and  forced 
them  in  to  the  flesh  until  the  snoring  became 
a  choking  gurgle. 

The  boy  drew  nearer,  staring  at  the  pair  in 
silence.  Laurence  looked  up  in  his  face.  It 
v/as  quite  unmoved,  and,  despite  the  excite- 
ment of  the  fight,  the  thought  of  what  a  float- 
[35] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

ing  hell  a  boat  must  be,  where  such  a  savage 
struggle  could  call  for  no  remark  from  a  boy, 
struck  him  with  dire  premonitions.  The  boy 
stooped  and  looked  sideways  at  the  face 
pressed  down  to  the  deck.  "Ye've  knocked 
him  out,"  he  said.  "Ye  can  let  up,"  and 
Laurence  rose,  feeling  a  little  hysterical,  and 
wiped  his  thumbs  on  his  clothes. 

The  snoring  recommenced,  and  then  the 
man  coughed  and  made  an  attempt  to  rise. 
Laurence,  aided  by  the  boy,  turned  him  over 
on  his  back  and  dragged  him  to  a  sitting 
position,  leaning  his  head  and  shoulders 
against  the  bulwarks.  He  soon  regained  con- 
sciousness. The  snoring  lessened  to  heavy, 
labored  breathing,  and  the  bleared  eyes 
opened  and  glared  sullenly  at  his  antagonist. 
He  shifted  his  position  with  difficulty  and 
tried  to  wipe  the  blood  from  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand.  Then  he  looked  up  at 
Laurence  again  and  muttered  some  coarse 
oaths  through  his  blood-clotted  beard. 

' '  By  G — d,  though,  ye  can  f echt ! "  he  said, 
and  stirred  himself  to  rise.  Laurence  put  out 
a  hand  to  help  him,  but  the  offer  was  re- 
pulsed; and  getting  to  his  feet  unaided,  he 
went  aft,  slung  a  bucket  overside  by  a  rope 
tied  to  its  handle,  and  began  to  wash  the 
stains  of  the  fight  from  his  face  and  hair. 

Laurence  Averil  was  no  coward,  but  the 
[36] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

brutal  and  unprovoked  ferocity  of  the  fight 
sickened  him.  It  was  over  in  a  matter  of  a 
few  seconds,  and  was  never  more  than  a 
nearly  silent  scuffle  at  best.  Now,  as  he 
watched  the  man  plunging  his  head  in  the 
bucket  of  sea-water,  blowing  and  splashing 
and  rubbing  the  blood  from  his  hairy  face, 
his  first  feeling  was  of  wonderment — wonder 
at  the  force  of  the  blows  he  had  escaped,  at 
the  blind  fighting  rage  that  had  possessed 
him  and  led  him — a  graduate  of  Merton — to 
kneel  on  the  back  of  a  prostrate  man  and 
drive  his  thumbs  into  his  throat.  Wonder, 
too,  at  the  callous  behavior  of  the  ship's  boy, 
and  the  half-dozen  of  lookers-on  who  had 
watched  the  fight  from  the  trawlers  moored 
alongside  or  from  the  edge  of  the  wharf. 
They  had  evinced  little  interest,  all  behaving 
as  though  a  fight  between  a  fisherman  and  a 
well-dressed  young  man  on  a  trawler's  deck 
were  the  most  ordinary  spectacle  in  the 
world.  As  he  stood  and  looked  across  at  the 
disorderly  decks,  at  the  blood-stained  man 
washing  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  a  grim  and 
ugly  foreground  to  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Firth  of  Forth,  and  the  blue  sky  beyond,  he 
heard  one  remark  made  from  the  boat  behind 
him,  and  only  one.  As  commentary  it  was 
brief  and  brutal  as  the  fight  itself.  A  man  on 
the  nearest  trawler  who  had  seen  the  whole 
[37] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

affair  turned  and  called  to  one  less  advan- 
tageously placed  in  a  farther  boat.  "Jock 
Menzies's  got  lickit,"  he  said,  and  uncon- 
cernedly returned  to  his  work  of  whipping 
the  frayed  end  of  a  warp. 

Menzies  himself,  having  washed  his  face 
and  dried  it  on  a  shirt  hanging  in  the  rigging, 
came  back  to  Laurence.  "Is  yon  true?"  he 
asked.  "That  ye 're  coming  as  hand  aboard 
here?" 

Laurence  nodded. 

"Then  Heaven  help  ye,  my  mannie,"  the 
brute  said.  * '  Wait  till  I  get  ye  on  open  water 
an'  I'll  promise  ye  a  weary  time;"  and  he 
went  down  the  ladder  into  the  hold  again. 

This  sounded  encouraging.  Laurence 
picked  up  his  pipe,  lit  it  again,  and  beckoned 
the  boy  to  him.  "What's  your  name?"  he 
asked  sharply. 

"Wilyum  Clitheroe,"  the  boy  answered, 
and  added,  "they  ca'  me  Wullie  aboard." 

"Where's  the  captain?" 

"Ashoore." 

'  *  Who 's  that ! "   He  pointed  down  the  hold. 

' ' Him  ye  lickit  ?  Jock  Menzies.  I  wouldnae 
be  you  when  we're  at  sea.  He  kilt  a  boy  off 
Stornoway  two  years  syne.  Strook  him  o'er- 
side.  No;  they  could  prove  naething — ne'er 
tried.  He  fell  overboard  by  nicht,  that's 
all." 

[38] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

1  'Who  else  is  aboard  this  cursed  boat!" 
Laurence  asked. 

1  'Oscar.  He's  a  Dane.  I  dinnae  ken  his 
ither  name." 

"What's  the  captain  called?" 

"Menzies.  He's  big  Jock's  feyther.  He's 
afeard  o'  Jock.  Jock  'ud  be  master,  but  he 
disnae  ken  the  fushing  grounds  weel." 

This  was  more  encouraging  yet.  If  the 
skipper  was  Menzies 's  father,  and  afraid  of 
him  to  boot,  it  looked  likely  that  the  son's 
threat  might  not  be  mere  unfounded  vapor- 
ing. Again  the  thought  of  the  bookkeeper's 
desk  came  into  his  mind,  and  again  he  re- 
jected it.  If  brutality  was  to  be  the  law,  so 
let  it  be.  He  thought  with  less  shame  of  that 
attempted  strangling,  and  it  seemed  well  to 
declare  war  straightway. 

He  walked  to  the  hatchway  and  looked 
down  into  the  gloom.  Sounds  as  of  scraping 
the  sides  of  the  hold  came  to  his  ears. 

* '  Menzies, ' '  he  called.    ' '  Jock  Menzies. ' ' 

"What  dae  ye  want?"  came  from  below — 
with  more  oaths. 

"You.    Come  to  the  ladder,  you  dog." 

The  bearded  face  came  to  the  light  beneath 
the  hatchway.  Laurence  leaned  over. 

"I'm  going  back  to  the  town,"  he  said. 
"And  as  you're  not  man  enough  to  throw  me 
over  I'm  going  unaided.  I  shall  come  back  to- 
[39] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

morrow  morning  with  my  kit.  Then  I  shall 
start  work  on  board — and  if  you  want  more 
trouble  you  raise  your  voice  or  your  hand 
higher  than  your  needs  and  you'll  get  it. 
Mind  that.  Get  back  to  your  work,  you 
muck." 

The  face  disappeared  without  remark,  and 
Laurence  climbed  the  wharfside  and  walked 
up  the  town.  But  before  he  went  back  to 
Harper's  office  he  spent  three  pounds  of  the 
twenty  that  remained  to  him  in  a  second- 
hand Colt's  revolver.  He  did  not  mean  to 
drown  * '  off  Stornoway, "  if  he  could  help  it. 


[40] 


CHAPTER  IV 


AT  half -past  nine  next  morning  Laurence  was 
again  upon  the  quay.  He  was  attired  in  an 
old  suit  of  blue  serge,  and  carried  with  him 
a  bag  containing  such  changes  of  clothing  as 
his  past  experience  had  shown  him  to  be  nec- 
essary for  a  long  and  probably  wet  voyage. 

The  morning  was  as  perfect  as  only  an 
early  September  morning  can  be.  The  soft 
autumnal  haze  upon  the  beaches  and  at  the 
foot  of  the  low  cliffland  only  served  to  throw 
into  clearer  relief  the  brilliant  blue  of  the  sky 
above.  A  gentle  easterly  breeze  broke  the 
bright  waters  of  the  Firth  into  shimmering 
wavelets,  and  the  whole  coast  scene  was  clear 
and  vivid  in  cool  northern  sunlight. 

One  or  two  steamers  were  passing  near  the 
shore,  and  some  trails  of  smoke,  low  above 
the  distant  horizon,  betrayed  the  presence  of 
others.  Half  a  dozen  offshore  trawlers,  laden 
with  the  night's  catch,  ran  before  the  wind 
towards  the  harbor.  The  picture  was  cheer- 
ing and  pleasant,  the  fresh  morning  air 
stirring  the  blood  in  the  veins  like  wine,  and 
[41] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

Laurence  descended  the  ladder  to  the  deck 
feeling  inspirited  by  its  influence. 

Menzies  was  still  below  at  his  work  of 
scouring  the  hold,  the  noise  of  his  scraping 
audible  above  the  open  hatchway.  Nodding 
to  young  Clitheroe,  who  was  washing  the 
breakfast  things  on  deck,  Laurence  threw  his 
bag  down  the  dark  forecastle  stairway  and 
swung  himself  down  after  it. 

Not  all  the  disarray  and  dirt  of  the  decks 
above  were  sufficient  preparation  for  the  in- 
terior of  the  dismal  hole  in  which  he  found 
himself.  The  place  was  in  semi-darkness,  the 
stench  insufferable,  and  ventilation  there  was 
none.  A  small  stove  stood  by  the  bottom  of 
the  companion  way,  nearly  filling  the  triangu- 
lar floor  spacing,  its  hot  pipe  offering  dan- 
gerous handhold  to  the  unwary  visitor.  A 
disorder  of  sticky  oilskins,  dirty  clothing,  sea- 
boots,  and  filth  unspeakable  covered  every 
inch  of  available  floor.  An  open  cupboard  by 
the  entry  gave  glimpses  of  unappetizing 
food,  wrapped  in  paper  or  lying  exposed  on 
tin  plates.  On  either  side  were  two  bunks, 
each  about  a  couple  of  feet  wide,  in  one  of 
which  a  tumbled  heap  of  torn  and  grimy 
blankets,  from  which  issued  a  sound  of  muf- 
fled snoring,  indicated  the  presence  of  a  third 
member  of  the  crew. 

As  Laurence  looked  around  in  the  dim  light 
[42] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

— the  place  was  lit  only  by  a  scratched  and 
befouled  circular  plate  of  glass  in  the 
deck  above — for  some  vacant  place  whereon 
to  deposit  his  bag,  the  snoring  ceased 
and  a  pale  face  under  a  shock  of  light  hair 
emerged  from  the  blankets  and  stared  at 
him. 

To  his  civil  " good-morning,"  the  pale  man 
vouchsafed  only  a  grunt,  followed  it  up  with 
the  inevitable  question — this  time  with  a 
strong  Scandinavian  accent: — "What  d'yo 
want?" 

Laurence  answered  it  with  another. 
"Where's  my  bunk?"  he  said. 

"Dis  is  mine.  De  boy,  he  sleeps  under  me. 
Jock  he  has  de  top  one  on  de  oder  side, ' '  and 
the  pale  face  and  light  hair  disappeared  be- 
neath the  blankets  again. 

Laurence  emptied  the  debris  in  the  one  re- 
maining bunk  out  upon  the  already  cumbered 
floor  until  he  came  to  the  bare  boards  be- 
neath. Upon  them  he  flung  his  bag,  changed 
from  his  serge  clothes  into  an  old  suit  of 
dungaree  overalls,  climbed  up  the  companion, 
took  a  deep  draught  of  the  clear  air,  and  de- 
scended by  the  ladder  into  the  empty  hold. 
Menzies  was  scraping  slime  and  scales  from 
off  its  sides,  and  looked  sulkily  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  new  arrival. 

"Ye've  come  then?"  he  said. 
[43] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

1 1 1  have, ' '  Laurence  replied.  ' '  What 's  my 
job?" 

Menzies  snorted  contemptuously.  "  If  ye  're 
sae  set  on  workin'  in  harbor,"  he  said,  "ye 
can  wash  the  floor  o'  the  hold.  Ye '11  find  a 
bucket  on  deck.  Yon's  a  broom;"  and  Lau- 
rence set  to  work  upon  the  first  paid  manual 
labor  of  his  life. 

It  was  a  weary  business.  Forward  the  hold 
went  beneath  the  floor  of  the  forecastle,  and, 
owing  to  the  low  headroom,  the  scrubbing 
had  to  be  done  on  hands  and  knees.  Being 
farthest  from  the  hatchway  this  part  of  the 
floor  was  in  almost  pitch  darkness;  it  was 
slippery  with  scales  and  offal,  and  the  stench 
in  such  a  confined  space  was  almost  unbear- 
able. Added  to  this,  the  difficulty  of  using 
a  heavy  ship 's  scrubber  in  so  narrow  a  space, 
the  discomfort  of  being  wet  through  from 
the  splashing  bucketfuls  of  water,  and  the 
necessity  for  kneeling  in  it,  made  Laurence 
more  than  once  begin  to  regret  the  whole  of 
his  undertaking. 

It  was  two  in  the  afternoon  before  he  fin- 
ished, and  then  all  the  water  and  offal  had 
to  be  sent  on  deck  and  emptied  overboard. 
In  this  he  was  aided  by  the  boy,  who  lowered 
empty  buckets  and  hoisted  the  full  ones  to 
the  deck.  This  done  he  went  ashore,  and  with 
William  Clitheroe  as  guide,  sought  out  a  slop 
[44] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

shop  where  for  a  couple  of  shillings  he 
bought  a  straw  mattress  for  his  bunk  and 
some  other  necessaries,  a  tin  mug,  and  a 
plate,  knife,  and  fork.  These  he  took  to  the 
forecastle  and  placed  in  the  cupboard,  asking 
no  man's  leave  or  license. 

On  his  return  to  the  boat  he  found  that 
Menzies  and  the  Dane  had  gone  ashore.  Im- 
pressing William  into  his  service,  he  did  his 
best,  first  to  clean  out  and  render  the  fore- 
castle more  habitable,  and  next  somewhat  to 
reduce  the  slovenly  disorder  on  deck.  For 
three  hours  he  labored  steadily,  coiling  ropes, 
washing  down  woodwork,  and  throwing  over- 
board much  of  the  uncleanly  raffle  of  rope 
ends,  seaweed,  and  fish  offal  that  cumbered 
the  little  vessel.  Just  as  his  labors  ap- 
proached completion  Menzies  came  on  board. 
He  had  evidently  been  drinking,  and  though 
he  said  nothing  he  spat  furiously  on  the  now 
clean  deck  and  kicked  a  neat  coil  of  rope 
into  an  untidy  heap  before  going  below. 
Laurence,  as  silent  as  he,  re-coiled  the 
rope  and  sat  upon  the  bulwarks  waiting 
events. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Menzies  soon 
came  on  deck  and  went  aft  to  his  father's 
cabin,  kicking  the  coil  of  rope  again  as  he 
passed.  Laurence  once  more  coiled  it  neatly, 
carried  it  aft  upon  his  arm,  placed  it  care- 
[45] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

fully  at  the  top  of  the  cabin  steps,  and  then, 
armed  with  a  capstan  bar,  sat  himself  upon 
the  companion  head.  Menzies  returned  to 
the  deck  within  a  few  minutes,  and  Laurence, 
the  heavy  bar  swinging  in  his  hands,  stood 
and  faced  him. 

"There's  that  coil  of  rope,"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  it.  * '  Kick  it  again,  will  you  ? ' ' 

Menzies  looked  at  the  erect  and  steady 
figure,  at  the  bar  in  his  hand,  at  the 
coil  of  rope,  and  then — stepped  over 
it.  The  first  battle  of  the  campaign  was 
won. 

The  Fairy  Belle  sailed  on  the  night's  tide, 
and  for  a  month  Laurence  Averil  regretted 
from  morning  till  night  and  from  night  till 
morning  that  he  had  ever  accepted  Harper's 
offer.  Dispiriting  as  his  reception  on  board 
had  been,  he  found  it  but  a  premonition  of 
such  discomfort  and  misery  as  he  had  never 
conceived  possible.  Menzies,  it  is  true,  of- 
fered him  no  violence.  He  had,  apparently, 
taken  his  man's  measure,  and  concluded  to 
leave  well  alone;  but  his  surliness,  his  foul 
language  and  filthy  habits,  were  alone  enough 
to  sicken  any  shore-bred  man,  and  the  re- 
mainder of  the  crew,  who  were  in  abject  fear 
of  him,  followed  his  example  so  far  as  to 
shun  Laurence  entirely.  The  skipper,  a  little 
wizened  man  given  to  surreptitious  drinking, 
[46] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

was  entirely  under  the  thumb  of  his  ruffianly 
son,  and  his  tone  towards  Laurence  varied 
from  whining  discourtesy  to  occasional  and 
equally  unpleasant  familiarity.  When  he 
found  his  new  hand  had  some  idea  of  navi- 
gation he  promptly  turned  his  ability  to  ac- 
count, almost  always  leaving  Laurence  to 
work  out  his  observations  on  the  broken  slate 
that  served  him  for  desk,  and  sometimes  re- 
questing him  to  take  those  observations  him- 
self. 

Not  that  the  battered  old  quadrant  was 
much  used,  unless  by  any  chance  he  was 
driven  off  the  fishing  grounds  he  knew. 
Generally  the  boat  was  steered  by  compass 
and  lead  alone,  and  Laurence  was  greatly 
surprised  to  find  that  the  maudlin  little  fish- 
erman knew  the  depth  and  material  of  nearly 
all  the  sea-bottom  between  Iceland  and  the 
Hebrides  as  intimately  as  a  man  knows  his 
own  doorstep.  After  days  without  an  ob- 
servation of  any  sort, — days  of  bitter  wind 
and  thick  drenching  squalls  that  shut  out 
view  of  empty  sky  and  empty  sea  alike, — 
days  of  weary,  cruel  toil  at  the  nets  and  gear, 
wet  through  and  wretched,  the  old  man 
would  finger  the  deep-sea  lead  handed  to  him, 
smell  it  and  say,  "Somewheres  aboot  three 
hunder  mile  nor '-nor '-west  o'  Wick.  Tues- 
day, is  it?  Keep  her  course  a  couple  o'  points 
[47] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

east;  we'll  pick  up  the  steamer  to-morrow's 
morrn."  And  almost  invariably  he  was 
right. 

No  such  certitude  appeared  possible  to 
Laurence.  When  the  weather  was  clear  and 
fine,  all  he  could  see  was  lonely  ocean,  its  line 
sometimes  broken  in  the  distance  by  the  faint 
cloudlike  shape  of  Eockall,  or  by  an  outlier 
of  the  Faroes. 

Sometimes  the  ring  of  sea  was  empty  and 
desolate;  sometimes  it  showed  the  distant 
topsail  of  another  trawler  or  a  faint  trail  of 
smoke  from  a  steamer  below  the  sea  line.  In 
foul  weather  even  this  was  denied  him,  and 
week  after  week  of  angry,  wind-scourged,  fol- 
lowing seas,  their  crests  torn  into  chill  spray, 
beneath  gray,  cold  rainsqualls  or  gray  and 
lowering  skies,  made  him  feel  lonely  and  lost 
and  miserable. 

In  thick  weather,  when  the  clammy  North 
Sea  fogs  shut  out  all  sight  of  sea  a  dozen 
yards  from  their  bulwarks,  when  the  boat 
rose  and  fell  on  the  still,  oily  swell,  the  fog- 
bell  ringing  dismally  or  the  hand  fog-horn 
hooting  discordantly  day  and  night,  the  very 
fear  of  death  came  on  him.  In  every  slow- 
counted  moment  of  light  or  darkness  he  was 
filled  with  dread  of  the  sudden  looming  of 
a  steamer's  steel  prow  in  the  darkness,  its 
crushing  of  their  little  boat,  and  a  miserable 
[48] 


LAURENCE        A  V  E  R  I  L 

drowning,  unreported,  uncared  for,  far  out 
at  sea. 

The  work,  too,  was  heavy — heart-breaking. 
Tradition  of  the  sea  demanded  that  watch 
and  watch  should  be  kept,  but  all  hands  were 
needed  for  the  lowering  and  hoisting  of  the 
trawl,  and  between  times  the  boy  and  himself 
often  had  the  deck  to  themselves.  Loneliness 
and  heavy  labor,  poor  and  vilely  cooked  food, 
wet  and  cold  and  discomfort,  and  the  fear  of 
death  over  all:  a  hundred  times  in  that  first 
month  he  made  up  his  mind  to  the  book- 
keeper's  desk  when  he  returned — if  ever  he 
should  return. 

Yet  he  took  some  pleasure  in  learning  the 
business,  and  so  learned  readily.  Learned 
to  manage  the  heavy  tackles  that  held  and 
drew  the  great  trawl  net ;  learned  to  steer  the 
boat,  her  trawl  down,  before  the  following 
seas  that  flung  her  to  and  fro  before  them 
like  a  toy,  striking  the  clumsy  rudder  from 
side  to  side  and  threatening  to  tear  the  tiller 
from  his  cold-stiffened  hands;  learned  such 
seamanship  as  all  his  summer  yachting  had 
never  shown  him,  and  in  so  doing  at  times 
almost  forgot  his  wretchedness. 

Then  there  were  other  consolations.  Late 
as  the  season  was,  it  was  pleasant  on  deck 
in  fine  weather.  The  trawl,  too,  with  its  half- 
ton  of  wonders  at  each  successful  haul,  was 
[49] 


The     COMING    BACK     of 

a  mine  of  interest.  The  cod  of  the  northern 
banks  formed  perhaps  a  third  of  its  takings, 
and  flat  fish,  great  halibut  and  skate,  a  good 
half;  but  the  rest  was  always  uncertain,  and 
nearly  always,  to  the  eye  of  a  stranger,  full 
of  new  and  strange  objects.  He  got  to  look 
for  the  untying  of  the  bottom  of  the  mon- 
strous bag,  slung  up  to  the  mast  by  its  heavy 
blocks  and  tow  ropes,  with  more  and  more 
of  interest. 

The  cruise  lasted  six  weeks,  and  it  was  mid 
October  before  he  again  landed  at  Leith. 
Changing  into  clean  clothes,  he  went  ashore, 
had  a  shave — not  without  some  complacent 
glances  in  the  mirror  at  his  lean  brown  face 
with  the  sharpened  lines  beneath  the  eyes, 
keener  for  their  days  of  outlook  on  shine  and 
storm — and  then  to  Clement  Harper's  office 
to  demand  the  bookkeeper's  stool. 

Mr.  Harper  was  engaged,  a  clerk  told  him. 
While  waiting  would  he  check  over  the  in- 
voices of  fish  from  the  Fairy  Belle  as  deliv- 
ered by  the  steamers ! 

Laurence  took  them  to  an  unoccupied  stool 
and  glanced  over  them  carelessly.  He  could 
not  check  them,  the  tally  of  each  catch  being 
in  the  skipper's  hands,  nor  did  they,  in  face 
of  his  resolution  to  quit  the  life,  excite  any 
particular  interest  in  him.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  last  sheet,  however,  was  written  the 
[50] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

amount  of  money  due  to  the  boat,  the  shares 
apportioned  to  each  hand.  Opposite  his  own 
name  was  a  sum  that  made  him  gasp.  Re- 
garding the  voyage  as  being  in  some  way 
only  a  trial  before  apprenticeship,  he  had 
never  considered  the  possibility  of  any  pay- 
ment being  due  to  him,  and  yet  here  in  one 
line  was  the  short  intimation  that  to  "L. 
Averil,  hand, ' '  was  due  the  sum  of  seventeen 
pounds  and  some  odd  shillings  and  pence! 
As  a  bookkeeper  his  salary  would  be  scarcely 
half  as  much — and  Clement  Harper  had 
spoken  of  this  life  as  being  merely  prepara- 
tory for  a  better  position ! 

He  entered  the  private  office  with  his  reso- 
lution somewhat  shaken,  and  the  faint  taunt 
underlying  his  employer's  greeting  went  far 
to  change  it  altogether. 

"And  how  d'ye  like  the  life,  Laurie  lad?" 
he  asked. 

"It's  ghastly,"  Laurence  said  shortly. 

"Ah.  There's  a  nice  three-legged  stool 
ready  for  ye  any  day  ye  like.  Ye  '11  be  stay- 
ing ashore,  nae  doubt!" 

"I  meant  to,  Mr.  Harper,"  Laurence  said 
slowly.  "I  tell  you  straight  I  meant  to  till 
this  minute,  and  now  I — I'll  try  one  other 
voyage,  at  all  events." 

"Good  lad,"  Clement  Harper  said,  and 
nodded  approvingly.  "Ye've  your  father's 
[51] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

grit — some  of  it,  anyway.  Now  go  and  draw 
your  money.  Ye  've  had  a  good  cruise.  Sev- 
enteen pun'  eleven's  no  bad  for  a  short  six 
weeks.  Ye '11  dine  wi'  me  to-night,  and  tell 
me  all  about  it." 

And  in  three  days'  time  Laurence  was  at 
sea  again. 


[52] 


CHAPTER  V 


MENZIES'S  attitude  changed  noticeably  from 
the  very  outset  of  the  second  voyage.  Any 
attempt  at  courtesy  was  impossible  from  the 
innate  nature  of  the  brute,  but  attempts  at 
genial  familiarity,  far  more  offensive  to  Lau- 
rence than  his  previous  holding  aloof,  took 
the  place  of  his  former  sulky  silence.  Ready 
as  Laurence  would  have  been  to  greet  any 
overtures  to  a  more  peaceful  condition  of 
things  on  board,  he  yet  doubted  the  man's 
sincerity,  and  was,  if  possible,  more  on  his 
guard  than  before  in  all  his  dealings  with  the 
skipper's  son. 

Within  the  week  he  found  his  suspicions 
justified,  and,  desperate  with  the  hardness 
of  his  life,  and  with  a  cold-blooded  and  skill- 
ful attempt  at  no  less  than  .murder,  finally 
decided  that  force  majeure — brute  force,  and 
force  alone — should  in  future  influence  all  his 
dealings  with  Jock  Menzies  and  his  kind.  If 
they  were  irredeemably  brutal  and  ferocious, 
he  too  would  adapt  himself  to  their  savage 
life  and  more  savage  habits.  If  he  was  hated 
for  the  education  that  had  set  him  above 
them,  that  education  should  only  serve  as  an 
[53] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

aid  to   make  him  worse — far  worse — than 
these  brutes  that  had  none. 

The  fourth  day  after  leaving  Leith,  Lau- 
rence, who  had  had  the  early  morning  watch, 
came  on  deck  again  at  eight  o'clock.  Oscar, 
the  Dane,  was  at  the  tiller,  Jock  Menzies  lean- 
ing against  the  bulwarks  near  him.  He  re- 
lieved the  helm,  nodding  cheerfully  in  answer 
to  the  latter 's  "Morrn,  Averil,"  and  Oscar 
going  forward  and  descending  the  forecastle 
steps,  the  two  men  had  the  deck  to  themselves. 

Laurence  had  slept  soundly  and  well,  the 
blessed  deep-sea  sleep  that  brightens  the  eye 
and  clears  weariness  from  brain  and  limbs. 
The  morning,  though  overcast,  was  clear  and 
not  too  cold,  and,  the  breeze  being  light,  the 
heavy  topsail  had  been  hoisted  during  his 
watch  below. 

Big  Jock  drew  his  attention  to  it,  almost 
deprecatingly,  Laurence  noted  thoughtlessly. 

'  *  Now,  ye  're  a  yachtsman,  Averil, ' '  he  said. 
"What  d'ye  think  o'  the  set  o'  that  taups'l?" 

"It's  rotten  bad,"  Laurence  said  cheer- 
fully. Menzies 's  question  had  anticipated  the 
uninvited  remark  by  a  second  only.  "What 
fool  made  fast  that  downhaul?" 

"That'll  be  Oscar.    Gin  ye  can  better  it, 
go  an'  do  it.    I'll  tak'— tak'  th'  helm."    He 
moistened  his  lips  and  glanced  furtively  at 
Laurence  as  he  stretched  to  the  tiller. 
[54] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Laurence  relinquished  it  and  went  forward 
to  the  mast.  The  downhaul — the  rope  that 
should  hold  the  lower  corner  of  the  great 
topsail  close  to  the  mast — hung  slack,  and 
the  sail  bellied  out  like  a  flag  at  its  lower 
edge.  Stooping  to  cast  off  the  rope,  he  swung 
by  one  arm  to  the  downhaul,  and  before  he 
had  attempted  to  pull  with  any  weight  upon 
it,  halyard  and  sheet  had  parted,  and  he 
was  buried  beneath  a  heap  of  crumpled  sail, 
the  heavy  spar  to  which  it  was  attached 
coming  with  a  crash  perpendicularly  upon 
the  deck  within  a  couple  of  feet  of  his 
head. 

As  he  shouldered  his  way  from  beneath 
the  sail  Jock's  voice  called  to  him  from  the 
stern,  and  Laurence  heard  and  wondered  at 
the  shake  in  it. 

"Wha — what's  wrang!"  he  cried. 

"Halyard's  parted.  Keep  you  the  helm 
for  half  an  hour,"  Laurence  answered.  "I'll 
go  below  and  get  a  marline  spike  and  splice 
it.  Sheet's  gone  too,  it  seems." 

Oscar  was  playing  draughts  with  the  boy 
when  he  entered  the  forecastle  and  went  to 
his  bag. 

"You  clumsy  fool,"  Laurence  said,  as  the 
two  looked  inquiringly  at  his  reappearance. 
"What  sort  o'  job  do  you  call  that — hoisting 
that  topsail?    Like  a  bag." 
[551 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

"Haf  you  lowered  it?"  the  Dane  asked. 

"It  lowered  itself.  I  took  a  pull  on  your 
slack  downhaul,  and  the  halyard  parted. 
Good  job  for  me  I  wasn't  a  foot  farther  for- 
ward, or  you'd  have  worked  double  tides  the 
rest  of  the  voyage. ' ' 

"I  did  not  belay  the  downhaul,"  Oscar 
said.  "  Jock,  he  put  taups'l  on  her.  I  nefer 
touch  de  sail. — Is  it  your  move,  William?" 

Laurence  went  on  deck  with  black  sus- 
picion in  his  heart.  As  he  expected,  he  found 
halyard  and  sheet  neatly  cut  half  through. 
The  work  had  not  been  clumsily  done,  as  a 
sailor's  knife  must  have  done  it.  The  inner 
strands  of  the  rope  alone  showed  a  clean  cut, 
the  exterior  ones  being  ragged.  A  penknife 
had  been  pushed  between  the  strands,  worked 
round,  and  withdrawn.  When  done,  the 
rope  could  scarce  have  shown  an  external 
mark. 

So  this  had  been  the  meaning  of  Jock 
Menzies's  altered  manner!  He  thought  of 
the  crash  of  that  heavy  spar  on  the  deck, 
and  grew  cold  with  mingled  rage  and  fear. 
How  long  before  he  might  expect  another 
attempt  on  his  life,  and  what  form  would  it 
take  next?  It  should  at  all  events  find  him 
prepared,  he  resolved  then  and  there.  It  was 
as  much  as  he  could  do  to  steady  his  voice 
as  he  called  to  the  brute  at  the  helm.  "This 
[56] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

spike 's  full  large,  Jock.  I  '11  go  get  a  pricker. 
Shan't  be  a  minute." 

The  revolver  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  bag. 
One  jerk  of  the  extractor  threw  the 
cartridges  into  his  hands,  where  they 
seemed  strangely  light.  He  pulled  out  a 
bullet  with  his  teeth,  and — there  was  no  pow- 
der behind  it. 

In  that  hour  gentleness  left  Laurence 
Averil.  He  reloaded  the  chambers  with 
other  cartridges  from  a  hitherto  unopened 
packet,  put  the  revolver  in  his  pocket,  and 
went  on  deck,  resolved  that  within  the  hour 
Menzies  should  be  maimed  and  broken,  or 
that  he  himself  would  be  overboard,  this 
wretched  burden  of  so  weary  a  life  behind 
him. 

He  had  not  been  his  father's  son  if  hasty 
action  had  followed  his  resolution.  Jock 
Menzies  could  wait.  Cutting  three  feet  from 
the  treacherous  end  of  the  halyard,  he  spliced 
it  carefully,  did  as  much  for  the  sheet,  re- 
hoisted  the  sail,  and  went  back  to  the  helm, 
the  two  rope  ends  in  his  hand. 

''What  d'ye  make  of  that?"  he  asked. 

Menzies  eyes  were  aloft,  around  the 
horizon,  at  the  binnacle,  looking  anywhere 
but  near  Laurence's  stern  face  or  the  accus- 
ing rope  ends  in  his  hand. 

"Chaf — chafed,  likely,"  he  almost  faltered. 
[57] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

"Chafed?"  Laurence  held  the  cut  ends 
six  inches  from  his  eyes. 

"Eh?  Oh,  that'll  be  old  rope— or  bad," 
the  ruffian  lied.  The  rope  was  nearly  new, 
and  as  good  Manila  as  was  ever  bought. 

"It  knots  well,"  Laurence  said,  and  tied 
a  hard  knot  in  the  end  of  one  piece.  "See 
that?" 

The  lowered  eyes  raised  themselves  to  his 
own  curiously,  and  he  lashed  out  at  the  hairy 
face  with  the  knotted  end.  The  rough  fiber 
of  the  rope  cut  a  deep  wound  under  one  eye, 
tearing  off  a  patch  of  skin  and  beard  two 
fingers  wide. 

Menzies  shouted  with  the  agony  of  the 
blow,  dropped  the  tiller,  and  leaped  forward 
— to  look  into  the  muzzle  of  Laurence's 
pistol.  Believing  the  cartridges  harmless,  he 
would  have  rushed  to  his  death,  but  the  pain 
in  his  eye  compelled  him  to  cover  it  with  his 
hand  for  a  moment,  and  in  the  darkness  Lau- 
rence's tense  voice  filled  him  with  terror. 

"I've  changed  these  cartridges,"  it  said. 
"The  ones  you  spoiled  are  in  the  forecastle. 
Now,  you  dog — what  have  you  to  say  before 
I  kill  you?" 

"Ye — ye '11  hang,"  Menzies  said.  His 
throat  was  husky  with  fear. 

"I'd  prefer  hanging  to  this  life,"  Lau- 
rence said  calmly,  and  at  the  moment  he 
[58] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

meant  it.  "Better  be  hanged  than  have  to 
live  with  such  filth  as  you,  you  murdering 
beast.  But  I'll  teach  you,  you  scum!  I'll 
show  you  who's  to  be  master  on  this  boat. 
Go  to  the  forecastle  and  call  Oscar  and  the 
boy,  and  come  aft  with  them." 

Menzies  obeyed,  his  hand  before  his  eye, 
reeling  as  he  walked.  When  the  three  came 
aft  Laurence  handed  the  tiller  to  the  Dane. 
"Get  you  forrard,  dog,"  he  said  to  Menzies. 
"Stand  by  the  mast.  William,  call  the 
skipper. ' ' 

The  little  man  came  on  deck,  a  startled  ex- 
pression on  his  face.  He  had  as  usual  gone 
to  bed  drunk,  and  was  anything  but  clear- 
headed on  being  waked;  but  his  son's  blood- 
stained cheek,  together  with  Laurence's  sav- 
age white  face  and  the  revolver  in  his  hand, 
sobered  him  swiftly. 

"What's  this?"  he  cried. 

"This  hound  of  a  son  of  yours  has  tried 
to  do  for  me,"  Laurence  said.  "And  now 
I've  called  you  and  all  hands  on  deck  to  see 
justice  done.  If  he  could  be  replaced  I'd  kill 
him,  I  tell  you  straight;  but  we  can't  get  an- 
other hand  here.  Hold  up  your  hands, 
you " 

Up  went  the  hands,  palms  open  and  to- 
wards the  little  group  by  the  wheel.  Lau- 
rence leveled  his  revolver  at  the  left  and 
[59] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 


pulled  the  trigger.  The  bullet  missed  its 
mark,  a  white  splinter  of  wood  jumping  in 
air  from  the  bitts  of  the  bowsprit.  Menzies 
flinched  and  his  hands  fell. 

"Up  again."    The  barrel  came  down  until 


it  pointed  at  the  broad  breast.     The  hands 
rose  shakily,  the  barrel  rising  after  them. 

The  next  shot  was  better  aimed,  and  grazed 
a  finger  before  going  overboard  to  ricochet 
a  couple  of  times  upon  the  waves  before  dis- 
appearing. Menzies  broke  down  and  begged 
for  mercy,  with  tears. 

"Up  again."  A  third  report,  and  Big 
Jock,  screaming,  fell  to  his  knees.  His  up- 
lifted left  hand  showed  four  fingers  and  a 
bloodstained  sponge  of  ragged  skin  and  flesh. 
The  thumb  was  gone ! 

[60] 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  little  tragedy  ending  with  the  shot  that 
sheared  the  thumb  from  Jock  Menzies's  left 
hand  maimed  Laurence  in  spirit  as  cruelly 
as  it  had  the  fisherman  in  body.  His  breed- 
ing, his  gentle  upbringing,  fell  from  him  like 
a  garment,  and  henceforward  all  the  service 
his  education  did  him  was  to  point  his  taunts, 
or  aid  him  in  selecting  biting  words  wherein 
to  frame  curses  or  threats. 

He  walked  like  a  somber  devil  unchained, 
the  cold  cruelty  of  his  unhappy  life  incarnate 
in  him.  As  he  passed  forward  after  the  shot 
he  stayed  to  kick  and  threaten  his  weeping, 
broken  antagonist  as  he  was  rising  to  his 
feet ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  voyage  all  hands 
on  board,  the  skipper  included,  feared  him 
as  they  feared  nothing  else  on  earth. 

A  sullen  demon  of  cruelty  possessed  him. 
He  spared  none;  the  boy  felt  the  weight  of 
his  blows  and  oaths  at  as  little  provocation 
as  Menzies  and  the  Dane.  Outwardly  calm, 
his  face  yet  began  to  show  relentless  lines 
about  the  thin  lips  and  nostrils,  and  at  the 
slightest  delay  in  the  execution  of  an  order 
— he  gave  more  orders  now  than  the  skipper 
[61] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

himself,  and  they  were  far  more  swiftly 
obeyed — heavy  punishment  of  kicks  and 
blows  visited  the  offender,  accompanied  by 
such  curses  and  vile  mockery  as  frightened 
all  the  crew,  accustomed  though  they  were 
from  their  childhood  to  the  foulest  of  lan- 
guage. 

Though  living  in  dread  of  him,  they  yet 
admired  him,  as  rough  men  of  the  lower  or- 
ders always  will.  William  in  particular  al- 
most adored  him,  and  even  though  his  shoul- 
ders still  showed  marks  of  recent  bruises 
from  Laurence's  heavy  hand,  spoke  of  him 
with  pride  to  boys  on  other  trawlers  at  meet- 
ings in  the  lonely  seas,  or  to  members  of  the 
crew  on  board  the  weekly  steamers  that  took 
their  fish  to  port. 

1  'Ah!  ye  dinnae  ken  oor  Averil,"  he  would 
say,  as  the  dinghy  tossed  and  sank  by  the 
steamer's  iron  sides.  "Him  that  lickit  Big 
Jock.  He 's  a  de  'il,  mon.  Look  ye — five  days 
syne."  He  would  show  black  bruises  on  his 
puny  arms,  pride  in  his  voice  at  living  on 
the  same  boat  with  "that  de'il." 

As  for  Laurence  himself,  something  seemed 
to  have  snapped  within  his  mind,  cutting 
him  adrift  from  his  past,  depriving  him  of 
the  power  of  thinking  of  the  future.  He  was 
as  a  man  stunned.  The  need  for  self-pres- 
ervation, seldom  so  acutely  defined  in  a 
[62] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

civilized  community,  had  benumbed  his 
senses. 

Had  he  been  capable  of  clear  thought  or 
of  reasoning,  he  would  inevitably  have  com- 
mitted suicide,  but  his  life  only  presented 
itself  to  him  as  an  ugly  dreariness  that  some 
outside  power  called  on  him  to  sustain,  and 
he  obeyed  its  dictates  blindly.  He  had  en- 
deavored to  live  among  these  brutes  amica- 
bly, respecting  their  rights  and  taking  little 
trouble  to  assert  his  own,  and  the  result  had 
been  his  attempted  murder. 

In  his  new  stupid  habit  of  mind  it  seemed 
to  him  now  necessary  to  disregard  all  their 
claims  to  humanity  and  to  treat  them  like 
the  treacherous  animals  they  appeared  to  be. 
He  bore  Jock  Menzies  no  special  malice.  He 
was  no  worse  than  the  rest.  All  the  crew 
only  formed  just  such  a  part  of  his  hated 
life  as  did  cold  gales,  head  seas,  or  frostbite. 
Over  the  forces  of  the  almost  Arctic  winter 
he  had  no  control :  in  that  alone  they  seemed 
to  him  to  differ  from  the  living  beings  with 
which  he  associated  them. 

He  began  to  drink,  too.  Not  heavily  at 
first,  but  the  raw  and  fiery  spirits  sold  to  the 
trawlers  by  Dutch  copers  grip  the  brain  at 
early  acquaintance.  He  was  rarely  drunk, 
the  spirits  only  fanning  his  dull  resentment 
against  life  into  moody  hatred  against  some 
[63] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

single  member  of  the  crew.  In  one  of  his 
bouts  he  took  the  skipper  by  the  neck — the 
two  were  drinking  together — and  shook  him 
like  a  rat,  beating  his  head  against  the  wall 
of  his  own  cabin. 

The  man  had  meant  no  offense.  Encour- 
aged by  beholding  his  feared  and  secretly 
admired  hand  sitting  at  his  own  table,  he  had 
ventured  upon  some  foul  familiarity,  and 
surprise  at  the  reception  of  his  remark, 
put  forward  as  a  feeler  to  more  genial 
intercourse,  almost  overcame  his  abject 
terror. 

And  yet  there  was  some  grim  method  in 
Laurence's  madness.  For  all  that  he  chas- 
tised the  men  with  scorpions  as  against  the 
whips  Jock  Menzies  had  melded,  he  drove 
them  to  steady  labor,  and  the  shares  paid  to 
each  hand  in  port  rose  above,  more  often 
than  fell  below,  the  receipts  of  his  first 
voyage. 

He  never  spared  himself,  and  watch  and 
watch  were  kept  justly  as  they  had  never 
before  been  on  the  Fairy  Belle.  If  he  seized 
on  any  member  of  the  crew  avoiding  his 
share  of  the  work,  swift  punishment  of  buf- 
fets and  tongue-lashings  surely  ensued;  but 
he  as  readily  thrashed  Oscar  the  Dane  for 
refraining  from  waking  him  to  take  his  trick 
at  the  helm,  as  he  had,  two  nights  before, 
[64] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

kicked  Menzies  and  Clitheroe  for  delay  in 
coming  on  deck  for  their  own. 

Not  that  the  justice  was  aught  but  uncon- 
scious. His  mind  held  nought  but  hatred — 
hatred  of  all  things :  of  his  lonely  hard  life, 
of  the  boat,  the  work,  the  crew,  and  the 
leaden-hued  sea  and  gloomy  sky  that  .ringed 
them  round — and  his  rude  justice  was  as  de- 
void of  reason  as  the  cruelty  with  which  he 
enforced  it. 

No  man  dared  lift  hand  or  voice  against 
it  or  against  him.  Big  Jock  was  broken;  he 
passed  him  by  on  deck  in  silence,  obeyed  his 
commands  as  silently,  cringed  when  directly 
spoken  to,  and  always  addressed  him  as  ' '  Mr. 
Averil,"  and  ''Sir,"  courtesies  unheard 
of  on  a  trawler  since  first  men  went  to 
sea. 

The  day  before  the  voyage  came  to  a  close 
he  called  father  and  son  into  the  little  cabin 
aft  and  warned  them  with  threats  against 
any  attempt  at  prosecution. 

"You,  Jock  Menzies,"  he  said.    "I've  shot 

your  thumb  off,  and  serve  you  d d  well 

right.  We'll  be  ashore  to-morrow,  and  if 
either  of  you  tries  any  law  nonsense  on  me, 
I'll  kill  you.  I  mean  it.  I  hate  this  life;  I'd 
as  soon  be  hanged  as  here,  afloat  with  you; 
but  if  I  stay  ashore  I  shall  only  starve.  If 
you  split,  you'll  maybe  lock  me  up  for  six 
[65] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

months,  and  when  I  come  out  I'll  kill  you. 
Both  of  you,  mind. 

"Now  you  get  forrard  and  tell  Oscar  and 
the  boy  the  same,  and  see  you  get  them  to 
keep  their  mouths  shut;  for  if  the  tale  gets 
out,  no  matter  who  tells  it,  I'll  kill  you  just 
the  same.  Get!" 

And  when  the  Menzies  got  ashore  not  even 
their  womenfolk  knew  more  than  that  Big 
Jock  had  crushed  his  thumb  in  the  trawl 
winch. 

To  his  own  surprise,  Laurence  found  no 
pleasure  at  returning  to  civilized  surround- 
ings. Clement  Harper's  decently  appointed 
house  was  irksome  to  him.  The  dainty 
napery  and  glass  of  his  well-furnished  table, 
so  delightful  on  his  first  return,  gave  him 
now  no  approach  to  any  feeling  of  comfort. 
The  dreary  forecastle  assorted  better  with 
his  frame  of  mind,  and  on  his  third  return 
to  Leith  he  curtly  announced  to  his  host  that 
he  had  taken  rooms  nearer  the  Fish  Quay. 
He  could  look  after  his  work  there  better, 
he  said.  In  the  day  he  did  work  savagely 
and  furiously,  but  his  nights  were  spent 
among  the  fishermen  and  sailors  in  the 
taverns  of  the  waterside.  He  rarely  ap- 
peared at  the  office,  and  never  again  at 
Harper's  house,  his  resentment  at  his 
hard  fate  being  in  no  small  degree  directed 
[66] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

against  the  man  he  considered  responsible 
for  it. 

Clement  Harper  shook  his  head  at  his  pro- 
tege 's  altered  manner  and  appearance.  ' '  It  'd 
ha'  killed  most,"  he  said;  "it's  made  a  man 
o'  him,  but  not  altogether  a  good  man  from 
the  Sunday-school  point  o'  view,  I'm  think- 
ing. He's  a  reckles  deevil — I  hope  the  lad '11 
not  throw  himself  away." 

Indeed  Laurence  was  falling  low.  Hating 
himself  for  it,  as  he  hated  all  his  surround- 
ings, he  lived  when  ashore  in  the  same  squalid 
vice  as  his  fellows.  As  he  had  at  first  fore- 
seen, his  education  and  knowledge  of  the 
better  things  of  life  only  made  him  chief 
among  men  who  had  known  only  the  worst. 
"Better  be  head  stoker  in  hell  than  grill," 
he  said  once,  when  Harper  had  ventured  to 
remonstrate  with  him;  and  the  roughest  fish- 
ermen in  the  fleet,  the  vilest-tongued  viragos 
of  the  waterside,  held  him  in  dread.  The 
future  held  nothing  for  him.  Dreary  though 
this  life  might  be — squalid,  wretched,  and 
cruel — it  was  yet  better,  he  thought,  to  bear 
this  savage  striving  for  existence,  this  wild 
life  of  fighting,  swearing,  and  drinking,  than 
to  make  any  attempt  to  labor  back  to  de- 
cency. He  thought  no  more  of  Harper's 
offer  of  a  place  in  the  business  in  the  future. 
What  right  had  he,  foul-tongued,  foul-lived 
[67] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

blackguard  that  he  was,  to  work  with  men  of 
smooth  hands  and  tongues?  The  past  was 
dead.  His  very  speech  took  on  the  Lowland 
inflection  and  accent,  and  Laurence  Averil, 
graduate  and  gentleman,  was  lost — merged 
in  Laurie  Averil,  brute  and  drunken  fisher- 
man. 


[68] 


CHAPTER  VII 


IN  the  April  following  upon  Laurence's  em- 
barkment  on  his  life  of  purgatory,  Harper 
by  way  of  experiment  purchased  a  steam 
trawler  and  offered  him  the  position  of  lead- 
ing hand  aboard  her.  Laurence  carelessly 
accepted,  moved  more  by  an  idle  interest  in 
the  steam-driven  machinery  than  by  any  de- 
sire of  promotion  or  increased  pay.  To  his 
surprise,  William  Clitheroe  begged  to  be  al- 
lowed to  accompany  him,  and  on  being  re- 
fused returned  to  the  request  again  and 
again. 

*  *  You  young  fool, ' '  Laurence  said.  ' '  What 
d'you  want  to  come  for?  You'll  only  rate 
as  boy  if  you  do,  and  if  you  stay  on  the  Fairy 
Belle  you'll  get  a  shift  upwards — they'll 
likely  take  another  boy  now. ' ' 

1 '  Ah  don 't  care, ' '  the  boy  said.  ' '  Tak '  me, 
Averil.  Jock  Menzies'll  half  kill  us  all  over 
again  when  ye 're  gone.  I  know  the  way  ye 
like  your  grub  cooked — an' — an'  all.  Tak' 
me  wi'  ye." 


1 1 


'All   right,"   Laurence    assented.      'You 
can  come  if  you  like.    I'll  speak  to  Harper 
[69] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

about  it;"  and  the  upshot  was  that  the  boy 
made  the  transfer  as  well. 

Preceded  by  a  shocking  reputation,  Lau- 
rence from  the  first  found  strained  relations 
with  every  hand  on  board.  The  fireman,  a 
Geordie  from  Sunderland,  took  advantage  of 
their  first  meeting  to  vaunt  the  prowess  of 
Durham  and  the  colliery  districts  as  against 
that  of  the  Lowlands,  only  withdrawing  his 
contentions  after  a  fight,  lasting  fifteen  min- 
utes, in  which  he  lost  two  teeth  and  ended 
by  being  knocked  down  the  engine-room 
hatch.  Laurence,  nursing  a  dislocated  finger- 
joint,  explained  in  language  unfit  for  repeti- 
tion that  he  held  no  brief  for  the  Lowlanders, 
but  that  he  should  then  or  in  future  be  de- 
lighted to  fight  any  swine  from  south  or  north 
of  the  Tweed  upon  the  slightest  provocation ; 
in  consequence  finding  himself  shunned 
henceforward  by  the  crew  of  the  Bute  as  re- 
ligiously as  he  had  been  aboard  the  Fairy 
Belle. 

He  neither  felt  nor  showed  regrets  or 
annoyance.  The  advantages  possessed  by 
steam  over  sail  were  soon  manifest  to 
him,  and  he  threw  himself  with  growing 
interest  in  the  study  of  the  northern  fish- 
ing grounds.  Demanding  and  readily  obtain- 
ing a  new  set  of  charts  from  Harper  after 
the  Bute's  first  voyage  he  began  to  work 
[70] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

as  he  had  never  thought  he  could  care 
to  do. 

Day  and  night,  with  but  the  shortest  allow- 
ance of  sleep,  he  was  on  the  Bute's  decks, 
forecastle,  or  bridge,  committing  to  a  fortu- 
nately excellent  memory  the  set  of  tides  and 
ocean  currents,  or  from  the  tallowed  deep- 
sea  lead  or  the  refuse  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trawl-bag  gaining  information  as  to  the 
depth  and  materials,  sand  or  rock,  gravel, 
shingle  or  silt,  of  the  great  level  sea-bottom 
that  lies  between  Iceland,  the  Faroes,  and  the 
fjords  of  Norway. 

All  through  the  soft  northern  summer  he 
labored  with  almost  mechanical  method  and 
care,  and  when,  in  the  following  Septem- 
ber, Harper,  well  satisfied  with  the  results 
of  his  experiment,  purchased  two  more 
nearly  new  steam  trawlers,  Laurence  was 
appointed  to  the  post  of  skipper  on  one  of 
them. 

His  promotion  made  little  alteration  to  his 
way  of  life.  As  master  he  was  no  less  a 
brute  than  he  had  been  as  man.  When  ashore 
he  still  drank  and  fought,  still  lived  in  the 
same  unlovely  vice  and  squalor  to  which  he 
had  fallen  after  his  second  voyage.  At  sea, 
it  is  true,  he  now  seldom  drank — even  heavily 
chastised  and  maltreated  the  men  beneath 
him  who  did — but  he  was  known  to  every 
[71] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

man  of  the  fleet  as  a  hard  driver  and  a  cal- 
lous, selfish  brute. 

As  a  consequence  his  voyages  were  almost 
always  successful,  and  within  six  months  of 
his  promotion  his  bank  balance  showed 
nearly  three  hundred  pounds  to  his  credit, 
in  place  of  the  limited  means  at  his  disposal 
when  he  arrived  at  Leith.  Equally  inevitably 
the  only  men  content  to  serve  under  him  were 
the  hardest  and  most  reckless  mauvais  sujets 
in  Harper's  employ,  men  who  feared,  as  they 
themselves  said,  "nor  man,  nor  deevil — only 
our Laurie. ' ' 

Their  fear  was  mixed  with  admiration,  and 
later,  after  experience  of  a  careless  Jbut  just 
directness  of  purpose  that  underlay  his  bru- 
tality, with  some  small  measure  of  good  will. 
Clitheroe,  especially,  now  lately  promoted  to 
deck  hand,  worshiped  him  almost  as  a  dog 
might  its  master,  and  with  his  clumsy  fingers 
took  upon  himself  the  care  of  Laurence's 
limited  wardrobe. 

Ashore  the  men  drank  with  their  skipper, 
were  proud  to  be  allowed  to  accompany  him 
in  the  narrow  wynds  of  the  harbor-side,  and 
spoke  in  awed  pride  of  his  foul  and  brutal 
language  and  his  sullen  readiness  in  quarrel ; 
but  at  sea,  Laurence's  command  was  abso- 
lute, and  the  discipline  on  board  the  Westray 
was  a  proverb  in  the  fleet.  Did  promotion 
[72] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

or  accident  remove  a  man  of  his  crew,  a  dozen 
of  the  ablest  fishermen  and  most  reckless 
ne'er-do-weels  in  Leith  were  ready  to  fight 
for  the  privilege  of  taking  his  place,  not  all 
the  reports  of  the  skipper's  hardness  proving 
a  deterrent  in  view  of  the  good  pay  drawn 
by  his  crew. 

Harper,  speaking  but  little,  yet  held  Lau- 
rence's ability  to  handle  men  in  high  esteem. 
"I'll  bide  my  time,"  he  said  once,  when  some 
more  than  usually  disgraceful  report  of  his 
protege  reached  him.  "The  lad's  lost  his 
polish,  has  forgotten  he  e  'er  was  a  gentleman, 
maybe.  I'm  no  so  sure  he's  the  worse  for 
a  while.  Better  sow  wild  oats  in  rank  soil — 
they'll  ripen  and  be  reaped  the  sooner.  If 
he'd  kept  his  polish  in  the  fleet,  he'd  maybe 
have  sloughed  some  of  it  ashore  afterwards. 
A  deevil  ?  Oh  ay,  he 's  that — a '  that.  A  dour, 
hard  case  is  Laurence ;  but  he  can  drive  men, 
and  he  can  catch  fish,  and  that's  what  I  pay 
him  to  do.  When  he  comes  ashore  here  in 
the  office  there'll  be  busy  times,  I'm  think- 
ing." 

Early  in  the  following  spring  he  broached 
the  subject  to  Laurence  himself.  Directed  by 
one  of  the  Westray's  crew,  he  sought  him 
in  the  public-house  in  which  he  lodged. 

Laurence  was  sitting  in  the  sanded  bar, 
drinking  and  exchanging  coarse  chaff  with 
[73] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

the  landlord's  daughter,  a  red-haired  brazen 
hoyden  of  nineteen.  The  pair  looked  round 
angrily  as  he  entered,  the  girl  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  table  at  which  Laurence  was 
seated,  her  head  back,  her  bare  arms  impu- 
dently akimbo. 

"I  want  t'  speak  to  ye,  Laurence,"  Har- 
per said,  disregarding  his  companion's  at- 
titude. 

"Speak  on,"  Laurence  replied.  "We've 
no  secrets  here." 

The  girl  leered  approval,  and  Harper  spoke 
shortly,  with  rising  temper. 

' '  I  have.  I  want  to  talk  business — my  busi- 
ness, I'll  trouble  ye  to  remember." 

Laurence  turned  his  head  to  the  girl. 
1 1  Get  out, ' '  he  said. 

"Ah '11  not.  Laurie  dear,  'tis  a  public 
room.  Ah!  let  go  of  my  arm,  you — you 
deevil,  Averil." 

Laurence  slammed  the  door  behind  her. 
"What  d'ye  want?"  he  asked. 

But  Clement's  eyes  had  followed  the  little 
scuffle,  and  his  tone  was  cold.  Hearsay  was 
one  thing — this  evident  familiarity  and  com- 
panionship another. 

"Who's  that?"  he  asked  sternly. 

"Mary  Anstruther.  You  needn't  be  so 
sour  about  it.  She's  no  worse  than  the 
rest  of  us,  an' — an'  that's  my  business,  I'll 
[741 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

trouble  you  to  remember.  Speak  of  your 
own. ' ' 

"You're  a  fool  and  a  young  blackguard," 
Harper  said  angrily.  "I'll  be  short  wi'  ye. 
McLeod'll  have  the  Westray  next  June,  and 
ye '11  begin  at  the  office.  I'm  pleased  enough 
wi'  your  work,  but  I  can't  stand  your  play, 
an'  so  we'll  make  a  change.  You'll  cut  all 
these  blackguard  friends  of  yours,  get  rooms 
in  a  decent  part  o '  the  town,  and  see  if  ye  Ve 
forgotten  ye  once  were  a  gentleman.  I'll 
have  no  harbor-loafing  drunkards  in  my  of- 
fice— and  I'll  leave  your  father's  son  afloat 
no  longer.  Ye've  learned  more  than  I 
wanted,  Laurie,  my  man. ' ' 

"My  father  was  a  thief  and  a  hypocrite," 
Laurence  said.  "I'm  a  blackguard,  but  I'm 
no  hypocrite.  See  you  here,  Clement  Har- 
per, I  don't  want  to  come  ashore.  Look  at 
my  hands."  He  held  them  up,  powerful, 
knotted,  and  gnarled.  ' '  That 's  what  the 
life's  done  for  me — all  through  me.  I've  lost 
touch  with  shore  folk,  and  I  don't  want  the 
shore  life.  Leave  me,  on  the  Westray.  Ye '11 
get  no  better  skipper." 

"Your  hands '11  come  soft  again — and  so '11 
the  rest  of  you,"  Harper  replied.  "I've  no 
more  to  say.  I  want  ye  in  the  office,  and 
there  ye '11  be  next  June.  I  want  ye,  man. 
The  business  needs  another  driver  there,  and 
[75] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

ye've  learned  drivin'  among  other  things, 
they  tell  me.  Come  back  to  decency,  lad. 
You,  an  educated  man,  to  want  to  stop  in  this 
pig  of  a  life !  Come  back  to  decent  work,  de- 
cent food,  the  society  of  the  class  ye  belong  to. 
If  it's  the  sea,  wait  a  year  or  two  and  then 
get  a  wee  bit  yacht,  or  spend  your  holidays 
afloat  on  a  liner  among  people  of  the  same 
grade,  with  the  same  ideals  and  aspirations 
as  yourself." 

Laurence  flushed  under  the  tan  of  his  skin, 
and  laughed  angrily.  "  Ideals  and  aspira- 
tions," he  sneered.  "My  ideals  and  aspira- 
tions are  the  same  as  those  of  the  folk  I  sail 
with  now.  What  more  can  you  give  me, 
Clement  Harper?  Our  ideals  are,  briefly, 
whisky ;  and  our  aspirations  are  to  catch  fish, 
make  short  voyages,  and  return  to  this  ': 
his  guernseyed  arm  swept  round  the  low 
room,  indicating  all  its  grime  and  slovenli- 
ness— "and  enjoy  the  society  of  Mary  An- 
struthers.  Never  fear,  man,  I'm  in  sympathy 
with  my  kind.  We  all  have  the  same  intent 
— to  take  all  we're  able,  and  keep  it  as  long 
as  we  can.  Could  you  find  such  unanimity  in 
any  drawing-room?" 

"I'll  waste  no  more  words  on  ye,"  Harper 

said,  nettled.    "Ye  leave  the  Westray  next 

June,  I  give  ye  notice,  and  if  ye  care  to  tak' 

the  place  I've  offered  ye  in  the  office,  it'll 

[76] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

be  at  your  disposal  for  a  month — in  which 
time  ye  can  look  about  ye  and  see  if  ye  can 
do  better."  He  rose,  walked  out,  and 
slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

Laurence  laughed,  a  laugh  that  sounded 
like  a  curse,  so  brutally  malignant  was  it, 
and  then  sat,  his  empty  pipe  between  his 
teeth,  thinking  over  this  change  in  his  for- 
tunes. He  had  long  since  almost  forgotten 
the  original  arrangement  Harper  had 
sketched  out  for  him.  Indeed,  when  it  oc- 
curred to  him  to  reflect  upon  it,  it  had  been 
with  a  feeling  of  marked  distaste  at  again 
mingling  in  the  society  he  had  known  in  his 
youth. 

Utterly  discarding  his  early  training,  he 
had  assumed  the  life,  clothing,  and  manners 
of  the  fisher-folk  too  thoroughly  for  that.  He 
knew,  too,  that  there  was  no  more  able 
skipper  than  himself  in  the  whole  of  Har- 
per's employ,  and  he  had  often  sulkily  re- 
flected, with  his  usual  savage  ill-feeling  to- 
wards all  men,  that  Harper  had,  as  he  put  it, 
"done  himself  none  so  ill"  in  offering  him 
the  position  he  now  held.  In  this  frame  of 
mind  his  employer's  new  offer,  as  evidently 
made  from  motives  of  friendship  as  it  was 
distasteful,  came  both  as  a  surprise  and  an 
annoyance. 

He  swore  softly  to  himself,  and  then,  re- 
[77] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

membering  the  bank-book  in  his  bedroom  up- 
stairs, laughed  savagely  again.  He  would, 
indeed,  return  to  his  own  class  of  society. 
His  three  hundred  odd  pounds  should  give 
him  a  six  weeks'  carnival  of  vice  in  London 
—perhaps  even  permitting  of  a  run  over  to 
Paris  or  to  Monte  Carlo.  And  then,  when 
the  money  was  gone,  he  would  come  back  to 
Harper  and  tell  him  how  he  had  spent  it- 
show  him  what  likelihood  there  was  of  his 
reclamation,  and  demand  a  situation  on  a 
trawler  again  as  skipper  or  hand — he  cared 
little  which.  If  he  were  penniless,  and  still 
resolute  in  refusing  Harper's  offer  of  pre- 
ferment, it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that 
he  would  be  cast  altogether  adrift.  And  if 
he  were,  what  matter?  True,  with  Harper's 
ill  will  it  was  doubtful  if  he  could  obtain  an- 
other place  in  Leith;  but  Leith  was  not  the 
only  fishing  port  in  the  British  Isles,  and 
his  knowledge  of  the  trawling  grounds 
would  always  be  a  valuable  asset  in  his 
favor. 

He  called  aloud,  and  Mary  Anstruther 
came  into  the  room,  her  chin  erect,  half  de- 
fiant and  all  sloven. 

"I've  got  the  sack,"  Laurence  announced. 

"Serve  ye  right.  Ye  hurt  my  arms  just 
now.  What's  he  sacked  ye  for?" 

"You — as  much  as  anything.  He's  of- 
[78] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

fered  me  a  shop  in  the  office  if  I  cut  all  your 
lot." 

The  girl  flushed  red  beneath  her  fair  skin 
— the  exquisite  skin  that  so  often  goes  with 
red  hair  in  folk  of  Scandinavian  descent. 
Her  manner  softened.  "Will — will  ye  tak' 
it,  Laurie!"  she  asked. 

"Not  I.  Curse  the  office.  I'm  going  to 
London — and  Paris — and  maybe  Monte 
Carlo,  and  have  the  devil  and  all  of  a  time 
spending  my  savings.  I'll  take  you,  Mary, 
my  dear. — No,  I  won't,  though.  I'll  take  no- 
body. If  I  want  to  play  the  fool  I  reckon  I 
can  find  folk  to  help  me  there  without  paying 
rail  fares  for  'em — carrying  coals  to  New- 
castle. You  can  stay  here — I'm  coming  back 
when  the  brass  is  gone, — and  I  can  kiss  you 
all  I  want  to  then." 

Mary's  eyes  drooped — and  then  looked  up 
again. 

"I — I'll  come  wi'  ye,  Laurie,  gin  ye  like," 
she  said. 

"Wouldn't  be  bothered  with  you,  my 
dear."  His  gaze  looked  through  the  girl. 
"Begad!  I'm  beginning  to  look  forward  to 
it.  Well-dressed  dinners  and  pretty,  well- 
dressed  fools  of  women  to  share  'em."  He 
smacked  his  lips.  "They  used  to  do  you  well 
at  the  Trocadero,  and  Verrey's,  and  the 
'Cri.'  I  don't  suppose  they've  forgotten 
[79] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

much — not  half  as  much  as  I  have,  anyway. 
Oh,  and  the  Royale  and  the  Madeleine — and 
dear  dirty  Pere  Vachette's  again!  Jubilee! 
it  will  be  an  orgie.  Clement  Harper's  a  pal, 
after  all. 

"And  the  Cote  du  Midi;  Cannes — Nice.    I 
wonder  if  I  can  hit  a  pigeon  these  days.    And 


perhaps,  if  only  I  can  find  a  number  or  two 
at  the  tables,  get  a  stroke  of  luck? 

"But  that's  out  of  the  question.  No  half 
hopes  of  luck  and  whimpering  when  they 
don't  come  off.  Just  a  definite  three  hun- 
dred quids'  worth  of  joyous  spree,  and  then 
back  to  this  cursed  hole — and  you,  and  your 
sort,  Mary,  my  dear.  If  I've  stood  it  once, 
[80] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

I  can  again.  Won't  you  be  delighted  to  see 
me  back  on  a  trawler  once  more,  you  red- 
headed light  o'  Leith?" 

The  girl  regarded  him  curiously  between 
half -closed  eyelids.  "I  dinnae  ken  the  half 
ye 're  talking  about,  Laurence  Averil,"  she 
said.  "What's  yon  places  ye 're  speakin' 
of?" 

"Restaurants  and  cafes,  my  peach."  He 
tried  to  put  an  arm  around  her  waist,  but 
she  repulsed  him.  "Places  where  I'm  going 
to  dine  softly  and  hear  music,  and  smell  flow- 
ers and  sweet  scents  again.  Places  where 
clever  rogues  and  lucky  fools  do  consort- 
have  been  consorting  these  last  eighteen 
months  while  I've  been  living  this  cursed 
life,  and  where  they'll  still  consort  after  I'm 
broke  and  back  here  again.  Next  June — 
oh!  and  the  parks  and  the  chestnut  trees  in 
the  Tuileries  Gardens!  It'll  be  the  fag  end 
of  the  Riviera  season,  but  no  matter  for  that. 
I  shan't  be  jaded,  for  one.  Give  us  a  kiss, 
red  Mary — Mary  o '  Scots — or  whatever  your 
name  is." 

She  spun  on  her  heel  and  struck  him  full 
on  the  mouth  with  all  her  strength.  "Go!" 
she  cried  and  choked.  * '  Go.  I  pray  Heaven 
I'll  never  see  your  wicked,  lying  face  again." 
She  burst  into  hysterical  tears  and  ran  from 
the  room. 

[81] 


CHAPTER  VIII 


His  crazy  resolution  once  formed,  nothing 
could  deter  Laurence  from  putting  it  into 
effect.  He  would  have  gone  at  once,  but  re- 
flecting that  if  he  remained  on  the  Westray 
until  forced  by  Harper  to  leave  her,  he  would 
possess  a  cogent  argument  for  his  re-employ- 
ment on  his  return,  he  decided  to  stay  till 
June.  Besides,  the  London  season  would 
only  then  be  commencing. 

He  gave  himself  over  to  anticipations  of 
a  royal  carnival  of  unlicense,  and  his  work 
and  surroundings  at  sea  at  once  naturally 
reasserted  the  effect  they  had  upon  him  at 
first  acquaintance.  Coming  pleasures  in 
view,  his  last  two  voyages  were,  if  possible, 
more  distasteful  than  his  first,  and  added  to 
his  hatred  of  his  environment  came  a  new 
fear — the  dread  that  some  accident  of  the 
unruly  sea  should  come  between  him  and  his 
contemplated  folly. 

Such  an  accident,  terrible  in  its  swift  trag- 
edy of  young  Clitheroe's  death,  occurred  to- 
wards the  latter  end  of  May,  but  the  horror 
and  shock  of  it,  while  subduing  the  spirits 
of  the  other  men  of  the  crew,  had  no  effect 
[82] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

on  him  beyond  a  redoubled  eagerness  to  quit, 
if  only  for  a  short  ease  and  forgetfulness, 
the  risks  and  toil  of  the  fishing  fleet. 

The  Westray  was  returning  from  the 
shallow  waters  to  the  westward  of  Reykjavik 
in  the  fourth  week  of  the  voyage.  In  the 
ordinary  course  of  things  the  trawler  would 
have  made  an  earlier  return  to  port,  but  Lau- 
rence had  encountered  one  of  Harper's  car- 
rier steamers  a  week  before  and  had  trans- 
ferred the  contents  of  his  full  hold  to  hers. 
As  he  argued  to  himself,  the  longer  the  voy- 
age the  more  money  to  spend,  and  the  men 
under  him  were  only  too  glad  to  echo  the 
seaman's  saw  of  "More  days,  more  dollars." 
Laurence,  being  on  the  extreme  northward 
of  the  ground  he  knew,  argued  rightly  that 
if  he  could  send  home  a  full  cargo  from  Ice- 
land he  could  amass  another  on  his  way 
homewards,  thus  drawing  double  pay  for  the 
single  voyage. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning,  bright  and  clear, 
with  pure  northern  sunlight  and  a  gentle 
breeze  that  brought  from  the  land  some  chill 
hint  of  opening  springtime.  Iceland  lay  low 
on  the  port  beam,  the  bare  towering  bastions 
of  Portland — the  first  view  the  traveler  ob- 
tains of  the  island — shouldering  themselves 
like  a  separate  islet  high  above  the  sands  to 
east  and  westward.  Laurence  had  given  or- 
[83] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

ders  for  the  trawl  to  be  raised,  and  had  gone 
aft  to  stand  by  the  taffrail  to  watch  it  come 
aboard.  A  deck  hand  stood  amidships,  his 
hand  on  the  starting  lever  of  the  steam  winch, 
and  Clitheroe  stood  facing  him,  his  back  to 
Laurence,  taking  the  slack  of  the  tow  rope 
into  his  hands  as  the  winch  unwound  it  to 
coil  on  the  deck  at  his  side. 

Suddenly  the  winding  ceased,  the  little 
steamer  checking  and  dragging  heavily  at  the 
tow  and  yawing  awkwardly  from  side  to 
side. 

Laurence  swore.  "  Curse  this  foul  rocky 
bottom.  'Vast  heaving,  you.  Reverse  the 
winch.  Davy,  keep  her  a  couple  o'  points 
south." 

"Ay,  ay,"  came  from  the  little  bridge,  and 
the  wheel  spun  in  the  helmsman's  hands  as 
the  stumpy  bows  swung  away  to  the  right. 

The  reversing  lever  of  the  winch  came  over 
smartly,  the  revolving  iron  cylinder  rewind- 
ing Clitheroe 's  neat  coils  of  rope  and  throw- 
ing them  again  on  the  deck  in  an  untidy  tan- 
gle that  dragged  towards  the  bulwarks  and 
overside. 

"That'll  do,"  Laurence  shouted.  "Heave 
again.  She  should  come  now." 

Again  the  lever  grated  and  the  clacking 
winch  resumed  its  work.  A  frightened  shout 
from  the  deck  hand  made  Laurence  turn  his 
[84] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

head,  and,  unable  to  help,  he  saw  the  whole 
of  the  ghastly  business  from  first  to  last. 

Just  as  the  tow  rope  straightened  Clitheroe 
stepped  backward  into  the  last  of  its  coils. 
The  rope,  tightening  with  a  jerk,  gripped  his 
ankle  like  a  vice,  and,  pulling  it  from  under 
him,  threw  him  face  down  across  the  hissing, 
chattering  winch.  Flinging  out  his  arms  to 
save  his  head,  the  now  tight  rope  caught  and 
held  his  left  hand  firmly  on  the  revolving 
drum,  jerking  the  tied  body  tense  as  a  harp- 
string  from  wrist  to  heel  in  a  swifter  and 
more  awful  rack  than  ever  medieval  torturer 
devised. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment.  The  wretched 
lad  never  screamed.  A  little  "Ah!"  of  sur- 
prise— an  "Ah"  that  ended  in  a  groan — and 
Averil's  shout  of  "Keverse  winch.  Engines 
hard  astern,"  set  him  free  and  dropped  his 
limp  body  in  a  long  tumbled  heap  upon  the 
deck. 

Laurence  ran  forward.  "Stop  engines," 
he  called,  and  stooped  over  the  white  drawn 
face  lying  with  its  cheek  on  the  deck  plates. 

The  little  steamer,  her  engines  silenced, 
rose  and  fell  on  the  easy  sea,  the  shadows 
of  bulwarks  and  gear  rising  and  falling  on 
her  sunlit  decks  as  she  moved.  Everything 
was  very  silent — so  silent  that  the  hissing  of 
steam  from  her  steam  valve  and  the  sound 
[85] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

of  the  engineer's  feet  on  his  iron  gratings 
in  the  engine  room  below  sounded  loudly  in 
the  ears  of  the  men  on  deck.  The  man  at  the 
wheel,  holding  it  with  one  hand,  gazed  si- 
lently down  over  his  shoulder  at  the  little 
group  by  the  winch.  The  winch  driver  looked 
curiously  from  the  prostrate  body  on  the  deck 
to  Averil: 's  anxious  face,  never  speaking. 
And,  more  silent,  more  still  than  them  all, 
young  Clitheroe  lay  at  their  feet. 

Laurence  knelt  and  called  in  his  ear, 
"Clitheroe — "William.  Are  you  hurt,  man?" 

The  eyes  opened,  and  in  them  was  bright 
pain. 

"Ay,  a  bit,  Averil."  His  speech  was  slow 
and  deliberate.  "I — I'll  be  a'  richt  in  a  min- 
ute. Put  me  by  the  bulwarks  there  an'  get 
t'  trawl  up.  Ye  can  tend  me  then." 

He  never  groaned  nor  complained  while 
Lawrence  and  the  deck  hand,  clumsily  for  all 
their  care,  carried  him  to  the  steamer's  side 
and  laid  him  down.  The  ship's  boy  was  set 
to  his  work  of  coiling  away  the  tow,  and  the 
winch  began  again  to  clack  and  grate  as  the 
great  trawl  swung  slowly  inboard. 

Cutting  the  tie  of  the  bag,  Laurence  walked 
round  the  pile  of  fish  and  went  to  the 
wounded  lad's  side. 

"Where  are  you  hurt!"  he  asked. 

"I'm  done,  Averil,"  the  boy  answered  low, 
[86] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

his  brow  beaded  with  pain  and  his  breath 
broken  with  gasps.  "Nay,  ye  neednae  touch 
me — I'm  past  helping.  See  there."  He 
glanced  downwards  at  a  red  trickle  that 
pooled  and  ran  from  his  waist,  mixing  with 

the  moisture  on  the  wet  deck.  "That  

winch  tore  me  right  open.  I'll  go  hame  nae 
mair. ' ' 

Laurence  stared,  stunned,  only  curious  and 
surprised,  for  all  the  horror  of  it.  The  boy 
had  never  spoken  a  word  to  complain. 

Clitheroe  saw  the  wonder  in  his  eyes. 
"Oh  ay,  it's  so,"  he  gasped.  "See  ye  here, 
Averil,  put  in  yonder,  and  bury  me  ashore. 
I've  been  at  sea  a'  my  life — leave  me  rest 

under  green  grass.  Besides,  I  fear  they 

fish.  I've  catched  'em  a'  my  life — dinnae  let 
them  get  me."  He  jerked  his  pain-twisted 
lips  into  some  semblance  of  a  smile,  then 
swore  aloud  at  his  agony,  using  oaths  he 
had  often  heard  from  Laurence's  own 
mouth. 

'  *  There 's  my  brither — on  the  Bonaventure, 
he  is.  I  stole  his  'bacca  pouch  last  time 
ashore.  Gie't  back  to  him,  will  ye!  Nay, 
I've  nae  ither  folks.  Averil,  say  me  one 

thing.  Ye 're  a  man,  ye  are,  by  "  He 

broke  out  again  into  more  poor  blasphemies, 

made  pitiful  by  the  wild  eyes  and  tortured 

brow.    "Tell  me,  did  I  die  like  a  man?    I 

[87] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

never  squeaked,  did  I? — not  when  that 

winch  tore  me.  Did  I!" 

His  voice  failed,  and  for  all  the  measure- 
less sadness  of  it,  all  Laurence  could  feel  was 
dull  astonishment  that  so  torn  a  shape  -could 
hold  any  desires,  ambitions,  whatever.  Yet 
this  broken  heap  could  die  like  a  Spartan, 
could  endure  agony  in  silence,  all  in  the  same 
spirit  in  which  the  boy  had  aped  his  own 
reckless  manners,  copied  his  oaths  and  dress 
— had  even  announced,  amid  the  laughter  of 
the  other  men,  that  he  would  never  shave; 
he'd  grow  "a  beard  like  oor  AveriPs." 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  men 
behind  him.  They  were  sorting  the  catch, 
flinging  the  smaller,  dragging  the  larger  fish 
into  separate  heaps,  as  they  worked  kicking 
offal  behind  them  with  their  sea-boots. 
Though  they  made  acknowledgment  of  the 
situation  by  working  in  unusual  silence,  never 
a  one  of  them  so  much  as  looked  at  him  or 
the  figure  lying  at  his  feet,  and  when  he  him- 
self looked  down  again  the  boy  was  dead. 

Two  of  the  men  carried  the  body  aft  and 
laid  it  upon  his  cabin  table,  placing  some  old 
sail  canvas  under  it  to  keep  those  red  stains 
from  the  wood.  They  went  forward  about 
their  work  again,  and  Laurence  sat  by  the 
table,  his  eyes  hot  and  dry,  and  some  half- 
formed  emotion — was  it  regret? — mingling 
[88] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 


with  the  brute  nature  now  ingrained  in  him. 
So  low  had  he  fallen  that  he  readily  made 
the  tiny  effort  it  required  to  still  it,  and  then, 
to  steady  his  nerves,  took  a  bottle  of  brandy 
from  the  cupboard  at  his  elbow  and  drank 


a  couple  of  glasses,  noting  in  some  grim  spirit 
of  callousness  that  the  still  burden  on  the 
table  yet  left  space  for  the  tumbler  beside  its 
head.  He  would  allow  himself  no  feeling  but 
annoyance  at  the  loss  of  a  hand  just  as  he 
was  starting  across  the  fishing  grounds  with 
empty  holds. 

And  the  boy's  preposterous  demand  to  be 
buried  ashore — he  refused  to  entertain  the 
idea  for  a  moment,  merely  resolving  to  throw 
the  body  overboard,  decently  weighted,  so  as 
to  lose  no  time  in  getting  back  to  his  work. 

With  the  motion  of  the  vessel  an  end  of 
[89] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

the  dead  boy's  handkerchief  slid  softly  from 
around  his  neck  upon  the  table.  Laurence 
snatched  at  his  tumbler,  and,  so  doing,  noted 
that  the  brightly  colored  fabric  was  exactly 
like  one  of  his  own.  For  the  moment  he 
thought  Clitheroe  was  wearing  a  stolen  arti- 
cle, until  he  found  his  own  in  his  pocket. 
The  boy  must  have  bought  it,  highly  priced 
as  it  was — Laurence's  one  trait  that  re- 
mained to  him  of  olden  days  was  a  fondness 
for  soft  and  expensive  underclothing  for  per- 
sonal wear — must  have  bought  it  in  imita- 
tion of  his  skipper's.  A  hundred  memories 
of  the  manner  in  which  Clitheroe  had  adored 
him — had  copied  the  way  in  which  he  dressed, 
even  to  the  angle  at  which  his  cap  was  worn ; 
had  sworn  his  pet  oaths ;  had  spat  and  idled, 
and  walked  with  a  little  careless  swagger — 
in  all  following,  as  best  he  could,  Laurence's 
worst  examples.  He  pictured  the  slight 
figure  in  its  blue  guernsey  and  sea-boots — 
nearly  always  worn  by  himself,  though  sel- 
dom by  the  other  men  when  ashore — leaning 
against  the  street  corners  or  walking  down 
the  narrow  wynds  of  Leith.  And  his  death 
— silent  endurance  of  torture — dying  as  he 
conceived  Laurence  himself  would  die.  His 
last  words  had  been  to  demand  whether  he 
had  died  like  a  man — this  stunted  boy  of 
scarce  eighteen. 

[90] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Laurence  drank  again — raw  spirit  this 
time-— and  looked  at  the  dread  thin  face,  still 
lined  with  the  pain  of  death.  Something  like 
admiration  rose  in  him.  The  boy  had  died 
like  a  man,  and,  since  he  had  demanded  it, 
buried  ashore  he  should  be. 

He  went  on  deck  and  hailed  the  bridge. 
'  'Change  your  course  to  nor '-east,"  he  said. 
"When  Portland's  abeam  again,  give  me  a 
call." 

"Ay,  ay.  Nor '-east  it  is,"  came  the  an- 
swer, and  the  little  steamer's  bows  were 
sweeping  to  the  left  as  Laurence  descended 
again  into  his  cabin  to  consult  the  chart. 

Covering  so  large  an  area  of  sea,  its  scale 
was  small,  and  it  was,  moreover,  marked  and 
scrawled  all  over  with  his  own  notes  and 
observations.  Placing  it  on  his  knees,  he  ran 
his  finger  along  the  coast-line  to  the  eastward, 
searching  among  the  names  of  villages,  head- 
lands, and  bays  for  some  inlet  that  should 
give  him  harbor-room.  The  nearest — Seith- 
isfiord — was  on  the  eastern  coast,  two  days' 
steaming;  so,  resolving  to  anchor  off-shore, 
to  convey  the  body  ashore  in  the  dinghy,  and 
then  to  leave  it  to  the  care  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  nearest  village  or  farm,  his  finger 
ranged  back  along  the  chart  to  the  nearest 
point  on  the  coast-line. 

Just  to  the  eastward  of  Portland,  a  broad, 
[91] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

shallow  stream  of  glacier  water,  the  Kirtha- 
fljot,  ran  over  wide  beaches  to  the  sea,  and 
close  to  it  two  hamlets  bore  the  names  of 
Asaa  and  Langholt. 

Some  half -lost  train  of  memory  stirred  in 
his  brain.  Asaa  and  Langholt — Langholt 
and  Asaa — where  had  he  heard  those  names 
before?  Langholt  and  Asaa — what  was  the 
other  word  that  had  occurred  in  conjunction 
with  them? — a  word  that  surely  must  link 
up  the  chain  of  memory.  Asaa! — Langholt? 
Puzzled,  his  finger  r.an  down  the  coast-line, 
and  there  in  fine  letters  beneath  "C.  Port- 
land, "  was  its  native  name,  "Dyrholaey!  ' 

Of  course;  Asaa,  and  Langholt-by-Dyrho- 
laey!  That  was  it.  The  names  of  the  vil- 
lages where  lay  the  valueless  lands  with 
which  his  father  had  swindled  the  old  sea- 
captain.  Laurence  swore  more  oaths  softly, 
undeterred  by  the  presence  of  his  silent  com- 
panion stretched  upon  the  cabin  table. 

He  poured  himself  another  glass  of  spirits 
and  drank,  frowning  as  he  pored  over  the 
chart.  Dyrholaey — he  tried  idly  to  guess  at 
its  meaning.  Door-hole-isle,  likely  enough, 
he  thought,  having  many  times  seen  the  great 
ocean-worn  archway  in  the  headland. 

Strange  that  fate  should  send  him  here, 
just  as  he  was  about  to  leave  for  a  while  the . 
hated  labors  to  which  his  father's  sin  had 
[92] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

bound  him.  Doorhole  Isle — just  as  the  ocean 
had  worn  the  great  arch  in  the  volcanic  cliffs, 
so  had  usage  of  the  sea  torn  and  rent  that 
structure  of  breeding  and  education  that 
once  he  had  thought  part  of  himself.  And 
now,  hardened  and  defiled  rather  than 
cleansed  and  purified  by  the  fire  through 
which  he  had  passed,  he  was  going  lower  yet, 
to  ostentatiously  fling  away  his  savings  in 
debauchery  more  attractive  than  the  vice  of 
the  seaports. 

Why  should  fate  serve  him  sol  What 
harm  had  he  done  that  he  himself  should  be 
debarred  from  the  best  in  life — that  best  he 
had  tasted  in  youth  ?  More  keenly  than  dep- 
rivation of  good  to  himself  came  the  remem- 
brance of  the  last  words  of  the  dead  now 
lying  so  still  before  him.  Oaths  and  blas- 
phemy— his  own  teaching.  Such  a  death  was 
worse  than  the  perishing  of  the  beasts  of 
the  field.  Devoid  of  religion,  and  with  no 
belief  in  a  future  existence,  some  fragment 
of  his  early  training  yet  gave  him  a  momen- 
tary distaste  of  himself,  almost  a  half-felt 
shame  at  the  memory  of  his  own  vile  words 
from  those  lips,  now  stiffening  in  death. 

He  drank  again,  until  the  spirits  flushed 

his  face  and  puffed  his  hot  eyelids.    Dyrho- 

laey — ay,    Doorhole   Island.     Portland — the 

land  of  the  portal.    The  same  name  in  two 

[93] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

tongues.  And  he  himself  was  going  to  stoop 
— yes,  stoop — to  a  portal  that  should  take 
him,  a  wild  brute  of  the  lonely  sea  wastes, 
into  a  land  of  milk  and  honey,  a  realm  of 
pleasant  words  and  smells  and  tastes,  of  soft 
voices  and  well-bred,  delicate,  sweet  sin. 

And  what  after?  To  come  back  to  sea — 
and  perhaps  some  day  to  be  winch-trapped 
even  as  this  poor  devil  had  been,  or  to  fall 
overside  and  drown,  weighted  down  by  heavy 
sea-clothing,  as  many  a  better  man  had  done 
before  him.  Memory  and  imagination  sup- 
plied a  hundred  details  of  that  last  passing, 
suggested  its  occurrence  in  a  score  of  dif- 
ferent ways,  and  the  terror  of  a  lonely  death 
at  sea  struck  cold  to  his  very  inmost  soul. 

Strange  that  his  work  on  this  boy  should 
end  here,  of  all  places ;  that  the  dead  whose 
soul  he  had  damned — if  damning  were  aught 
but  the  fiction  he  believed — would  be  laid  out 
of  sight  under  the  lava-blocks  and  starving 
land  through  which  his  father  before  him 
had  struck  down  another  such  harmless  vic- 
tim. Father  and  son,  alike  in  their  work: 
sea-captain  and  trawler's  deck  hand,  victims 
both,  broken  by  their  ignorance  of  aught  but 
the  poor  simple  ways  of  life  at  sea. 

He  drank  again,  and  looked  at  the  drawn, 
set  face  upon  the  table. 

What  did  it  matter,  after  all?  Who  were 
[94] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

they,  that  these  dead  should  so  mutely  accuse 
him?  He  had  no  hand  in  the  killing  of  the 
body — only  the  soul.  His  father,  too,  had 
never  laid  hands  on  his  victim — only  robbed 
him  with  cunning  and  greed.  He  laughed 
softly  but  brutally,  and  tried  to  think  of  the 
Northern  Boulevards  in  June  sunlight;  but 
somehow  the  thoughts  refused  to  flow  easily 
as  heretofore. 

It  was  not  his  fault — or  his  father's. 

"Clumsy fools,"  he  said  aloud,  with  an 

oath;  and  then,  "By  G — d!  I'm  getting  mor- 
bid— or  tight.  I'll  give  the  whelp  his  burial 
ashore,  and  then,  hey  for  southern  sunlight !" 

He  sewed  Clitheroe's  dead  body  in  a 
blanket  that  but  half  a  dozen  hours  before 
had  wrapped  it  in  a  lighter  rest  than  this  that 
knew  no  waking.  This  done,  he  went  on  deck, 
and  through  his  glasses  examined  the  now 
approaching  coast.  The  quantity  he  had 
drunk  had  made  him  somewhat  stupid,  and 
he  answered  the  helmsman's  hail  of  "Port- 
land's abeam"  with  a  dull,  "What  say!" 

"Portland's  abeam,"  the  man  repeated, 
waving  his  hand  towards  it. 

Laurence  rocked  on  his  heels  with  the  mo- 
tion of  the  boat.  "Do  you  think  I  haven't 

eyes,  you clown? ' '  he  said.  "Mind  your 

wheel — keep  t'  your  own  business." 

"Ye  told  me  to  give  ye  a  hail,"  the  man 
[95] 


LAURENCE        A  V  E  R  I  L 

responded  sulkily,  and  turned  his  back  upon 
him. 

Laurence  drunkenly  reflected.  So  he  had, 
of  course.  But  that  was  if  he  was  below. 
Couldn't  the  fool  see  he  was  on  deck?  Con- 
scious that  he  was  betraying  his  condition, 
he  turned  his  attention  again  to  the  land. 

His  glass  showed  dark  gray  shingle 
beaches  broken  in  one  place  by  a  band  of 
green  shot  with  silver.  That  must  be  the 
stream  with  the  difficult  name — Kir — Kirtha- 
fljot.  That  was  it.  And  Langholt  should  be 
near  its  mouth.  Closer  examination  revealed 
a  couple  of  wooden  gable  ends  under  grass- 
grown  roofs,  on  which  a  sheep  was  feeding. 
A  wooden  groyne  lay  down  the  beach,  some 
boats  hauled  up  beside  it,  and  another  was 
being  pushed  into  the  water  by  two  or  three 
men.  In  the  clear  air  their  thick  clothing 
and  ear-flapped  caps  were  distinctly  visible 
by  the  glass 's  aid.  Laurence  gauged  the  dis- 
tance with  his  eye. 

"Run  up  some  sort  of  a  flag  half  mast,"  he 
called  to  the  bridge.  "We'll  anchor  about 
five  miles  farther  along — just  by  that  bit  of 
a  river.  I'm  going  to  take  him  ashore."  He 
jerked  his  thumb  towards  the  cabin ;  the  man 
at  the  wheel  growled  a  surly  assent,  and  Lau- 
rence went  below  again  to  the  company  of 
the  shrouded  bundle  on  his  table. 
[96] 


CHAPTER  IX 


A  STRANGE  voice  through  his  skylight  half  an 
hour  later  roused  him  from  dull  reverie.  He 
ascended  the  narrow  stairway  to  find  two  of 
his  men  striving  against  the  obstacles  to  con- 
versation with  a  snuff-smeared  Icelander  who 
had  climbed  to  the  deck  from  the  boat  he 
had  seen  launched  from  Langholt  beach, 
which  now  was  towing  alongside. 

All  three  men  turned  to  him  as  he  ap- 
proached. 

"What  does  he  want?"  he  asked. 

The  men  were  unable  to  tell  him.  l '  Either 
he  wants  to  buy  tobacco  or  sell  it,"  they  said. 
"We  cannae  make  out  what  he  says." 

Laurence  tried  him  in  Danish,  a  few  words 
of  which  he  had  picked  up  in  Thorshavn, 
and  found  he  desired  to  buy.  The  farms  were 
cut  off  from  civilization  throughout  the  win- 
ter, and  the  Westray  was  the  first  spring 
visitor.  He  took  the  man  to  the  skylight  and 
pointed  down  at  the  blanket-wrapped  bundle 
on  the  table.  '  *  Would  the  native  boat  take  the 
body  ashore  and  attend  to  its  interment?"  he 
asked. 

The  man's  answer  was  difficult  to  under- 

[97] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

stand,  but  as  far  as  Laurence  could  compre- 
hend, it  would  be  necessary  for  the  skipper 
or  a  member  of  the  crew  to  accompany  the 
corpse  ashore  for  the  purpose  of  proving 
identity  or  making  a  deposition  as  to  the 
manner  of  death.  One  constantly  repeated 
word — sysselman — he  guessed  at  last  to 
mean  some  sort  of  head  man  of  the  parish 
or  district.  Apparently  the  body  could  not 
be  buried  without  this  official's  permission. 

"We'll  have  to  anchor,  after  all,"  he  said, 
and  gave  the  required  orders.  ' '  Get  you  be- 
low, two  of  you,  and  get  him  on  deck.  Parcel 
him  up  with  a  spare  line  and  lower  into  that 
boat." 

The  body  was  slung  overside,  much  as  any 
other  inanimate  bundle  might  be — Laurence, 
with  as  much  tobacco  as  the  crew  could  spare, 
following  it;  and  the  boat  pulled  away  from 
the  anchoring  trawler  across  the  intervening 
water  to  the  shore. 

Two  of  the  men  carried  their  burden  up 
the  stony  beach  and  into  a  low-ceiled  room 
in  the  nearer  house.  Laurence,  following, 
found  a  fat,  sheep-faced  woman  standing  by 
it,  her  homely  face  alive  with  regret. 

"Ah!    I  sorry — sorry,"  she  said  brokenly. 

"You  speak  English?"  Laurence  inquired, 
in  surprise. 

[98] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"Yess;  little — ver'  little.  I  was  in  Hotel 
Reykjavik — long  ago — before  I  was  marry." 

"Is  your  husband  sysselman?" 

*  *  Sysselmann.  Oh  no — no.  He  live  fir — 
fifteen  mile — there,"  she  pointed  inland  with 
a  fa't  forefinger. 

"At  Asaa?" 

"Yess,  Asaa.    You  know  Asaa?" 

Laurence  shook  his  head,  fuming  with  an- 
noyance. Here  it  was  already  late  afternoon, 
and  this  precious  official  had  to  be  fetched 
before  he  could  proceed  farther.  He  consid- 
ered whether  he  should  get  put  aboard,  up 
anchor,  and  away.  They  would  have  to  bury 
the  lad  then,  at  their  own  charges  and  with- 
out further  trouble  to  himself. 

Seeing  the  woman  bring  out  a  clean  sheet 
to  lay  over  t)ie  body,  he  decided  to  stay. 
After  all,  it  was  but  a  day.  If  these  homely 
strangers  could  so  care  for  the  sacred  dead 
they  had  never  known,  it  would  be  hardly 
meet  that  a  member  of  his  own  crew  should 
be  left  to  their  care  like  so  much  worthless 
carrion. 

""When  will  the  sysselman  be  here!"  he 
asked. 

"We  send  to-night.  He  come  to-morrow. 
Cannot  more  queek  as  that. ' ' 

* '  Very  well, ' '  Laurence  said.  ' i  I  will  sleep 
[99] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

on  board  and  come  ashore  in  the  morning. 
Can  the  body  stay  here?" 

"Yess.  Oah  yess.  But  not  here  in  room. 
Outside.  You  come." 

She  led  him  into  a  nearly  empty  shed  ad- 
joining the  house.  Some  few  dry  fish  lay  in 
one  corner,  fenced  off  from  the  depredations 
of  the  ponies  by  sheets  of  corrugated  iron. 
Laurence  helping  her,  two  of  the  sheets  were 
laid  on  the  dirty  floor,  and  the  body,  brought 
in  by  its  former  bearers,  was  laid  upon 
them. 

Though  the  place  cried  aloud  of  starving 
poverty,  the  woman,  after  exchanging  a  few 
words  with  her  companions,  asked  him  to 
join  them  at  their  afternoon  meal.  Their 
gentle  manners  and  simplicity  almost  an- 
gered him.  The  effect  of  his  morning 's  pota- 
tions was  dying  out  of  him,  leaving  him  de- 
pressed and  sulky,  and  their  quiet  content- 
ment moved  him  to  dull  rage.  He  refused 
curtly — said  he  was  going  for  a  walk;  and 
when  he  perceived  from  the  sympathy  in 
their  faces  that  they  imagined  him  grieving 
for  a  comrade,  he  could  have  struck  them. 

He  turned  from  them  and  started  to  walk 
inland  across  the  poor,  sparsely  covered 
land;  then,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder, 
pointed  out  a  high  rock  that  broke  the  ho- 
rizon two  or  three  miles  away,  and  demanded 
[100] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

its  name.  He  would  walk  there  and  back — 
walk  the  last  of  the  liquor  out  of  him. 

* '  Ookthleed, "  he  thought  the  woman  an- 
swered. He  repeated  the  word  interroga- 
tively: "Ookthleed  f" 

"Ja,  ja.  Yess,"  they  answered,  in  chorus. 
"Ookthleed." 

A  sudden  memory  prompted  him.  He  re- 
traced his  steps,  searching  in  his  pockets  un- 
til he  found  a  lead  pencil.  "Write  it  down," 
he  told  the  woman;  and,  as  he  expected,  she 
wrote  it,  "Uthlid!" 

The  word  set  his  memory  loose.  "Hau- 
kadal!"  he  asked.  They  pointed  to  more 
bare  lands  to  the  left.  "  Sveinardal  ? "  To 
the  right  this  time.  Those  very  worthless 
lands  his  father  had  bought  from  Clement 
Harper  three  years  before. 

Laurence  laughed,  a  short,  mirthless  laugh 
that  stopped  the  woman's  inquiries,  rendered 
more  incoherent  through  surprise.  He  would 
walk  to  this  Uthlid  rock,  and  sit  there  and 
hug  his  hate  to  him — his  hate  of  all  the  world. 
That  would  be  a  truly  well-conceived  artistic 
whole :  that  he,  stupefied  and  wild-eyed  with 
the  dying  effects  of  drink,  should  sit  await- 
ing the  burial  of  this  boy  who  had  learned 
naught  but  evil  from  him,  amid  the  lands  his 
suave  thief  of  a  father  had  used  to  ruin  one 
of  the  least  of  all  his  victims.  And  as  a  con- 

[  101  ] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

trast  what  could  be  more  suitable  than  the 
future  two  months.  In  a  week — a  fortnight 
at  most — he  would  be  luxuriously  speeding 
south  to  riot  and  revel  and  befoul  himself 
yet  more.  Totally  disregarding  the  onlook- 
ers, he  turned  again  inland  and  set  off 
quickly,  staggering  a  little  as  he  walked. 

All  around  him  the  land  was  bare  and 
rugged.  Great  barren  rocks  of  lava  broke 
the  poor  heather  and  grass  in  all  directions. 
Here  and  there  between  the  lava  patches  were 
tiny  naked  fields,  and  snow  lay  in  every  shel- 
tered hollow.  As  the  afternoon  lengthened 
the  wind  grew  cold,  and  he  pulled  his  rough 
pilot  coat  closer  around  him,  tying  his  ker- 
chief more  tightly  round  his  neck. 

Poor  and  jejune  land;  arid,  useless  lava, 
cold  wind  sweeping  across  the  waste ;  wasted 
lives  and  broken,  purposeless  deaths — how 
well  his  father's  means  had  matched  his 
work. 

"Must  have  had  an  artistic  sense  of  com- 
pleteness, too,"  Laurence  said  aloud,  his 
teeth  inclined  to  chatter  with  cold  and  misery, 
for  all  his  attempt  at  a  sneer. 

Uthlid  rock  proved  to  be  a  mass  of  vol- 
canic tufa,  perhaps  forty  feet  high.  On  one 
side  the  lava  had  pressed  upwards  to  half 
its  height,  as  a  wave  dashes  upwards  against 
a  wall,  and  there  had  cooled  hard.  On  the 
[102] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

opposite  side  the  ground  was  clear  for  some 
small  space  where  the  boulder  had  parted 
the  lava  stream.  Snow  lay  deep  upon  the 
higher  side,  but  the  strengthening  sun  had 
melted  it  in  the  hollow,  and  one  or  two  tiny 
flowers  already  showed  between  the  sparse 
grass  blades. 

Being  sheltered  from  the  wind  by  the 
boulder,  and  visited  by  the  low  sun,  the  hol- 
low showed  promise  of  warmth.  Laurence 
jumped  down  into  it,  sought  a  sunlit  corner, 
and  lighting  a  pipe  sat  and  smoked,  his  knees 
beneath  his  chin,  stupidly  watching  the  west- 
ern sky. 

He  tried  to  remember  the  details  of  the 
inquiry  into  his  father's  affairs,  but  nothing 
beyond  the  memory  of  the  old  sea-captain's 
wretched  face  came  to  supplement  the  farm 
names  that  had  set  this  train  of  thought  in 
motion.  Such  a  scared,  unhappy  face.  As 
though  it  were  now  before  him,  he  could  see 
the  plaintive  working  of  the  brow  over  the 
gray  eyes  with  the  pale,  senile  arc  in  them; 
the  old  man's  stubby  fingers — still  the  sail- 
or's short,  broad  hand  for  all  its  late-won 
whiteness — plucking  nervously  at  his  beard 
or  mustache,  touching  his  lips,  always  fidget- 
ing around  the  querulous  mouth. 

And  then  arose  a  memory  of  his  own  fa- 
ther's face.  The  square  brows  and  jaw,  the 
[103] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

set  of  the  firm,  clean-shaven  lips,  made  sharp 
contrast  to  the  aged  and  harassed  face  of  the 
man  he  had  ruined.  Just  as  the  one  had  been 
frightened,  moved  by  fleeting  changes  of 
emotion,  troubled  and  unstable  as  the  waters 
on  which  it  had  looked  out  for  a  lifetime,  so 
had  the  other  been  strong  and  hard,  and 
guarded  in  expression,  as  though  earnest  of 
these  wild  rocky  lands  now  about  him.  An 
eddy  of  the  cold  wind  found  its  way  down 
into  the  hollow,  and  he  shivered  as  it  blew 
across  his  shoulders,  chilling  him  through 
and  through.  It  was  as  though  some  icy 
whisper  of  fate  had  come  to  remind  him  of 
his  misery. 

Never  mind.  A  month  hence  he  would  be 
softly  lapped  about  with  luxury — drinking  of 
sweet  forbidden  waters, — eating  prohibited 
fruit.  Just  a  month  or  six  weeks  by  the  wa- 
ters of  Lethe — in  Armida's  garden.  And  the 
memory  of  this  pitiless  waste,  this  cold  lone- 
liness, should  help  sweeten  his  sojourn  there. 
He  would  take  with  him  some  souvenir  of 
these  bitter  hours — a  little  piece  of  the  lava, 
or  a  flower.  No,  a  flower  would  look  like 
sickly  sentiment.  He  would  take  a  hard,  cold- 
hearted  pebble,  and  keep  it  by  him.  All 
through  the  coming  months  it  should  go  wher- 
ever he  went,  reminding  him  of  the  life  of 
misery  from  which  he  had  come  and  to  which 
[104] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 


he  must  inevitably  return.  It  should  serve 
as  the  death's  head  at  his  feast,  telling  him 
that  time  fled  and  that  he  must  snatch  at  all 
the  sweets  swiftly 
— swiftly.  D  u  m 
vivimus  vivamus: 
memory  of  un- 
happy past,  sure 
knowledge  of  un- 
happy future, 
should  point  the 
jest,  sweeten  the 
winecup,  make  fair 
faces  fairer.  ' '  I 
wonder  who'll  ask 
me  why  I  keep  it 
by  me?"  he  won- 
dered idly.  "I'll 
say  it's  a  mascot." 
He  searched  for 
such  a  pebble,  but 
the  lava  lay  in  gi- 
gantic twisted  mas- 
ses, glassy  hard, 
and  the  short  poor 

grass  covered  any  weatherworn  debris  be- 
tween them.  He  searched  round  the  base 
of  the  great  rock.  It  seemed  to  have  been 
pushed  a  little  from  its  place  by  the  lava 
stream,  grinding  its  way  heavily  for  per- 
[105] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

haps  a  foot  or  more  over  the  uneven  ground, 
and  scratched  and  ragged  fragments  of 
spalled  rock  lay  beneath  it.  He  kicked  at 
one  of  them  with  his  heavy  sea-boots,  break- 
ing off  a  small  piece  of  dark  greenish 
stone.  It  showed  a  lighter  green  on 
its  broken  side,  with  a  hint  of  iridescence. 
4 'Some  sort  of  jasper  or  agate,"  he  said  to 
himself,  then  put  it  into  his  pocket  and 
walked  back  across  the  lonely  plain  to  Lang- 
holt,  reaching  the  farm  just  as  sunset  gave 
place  to  the  long  twilight  of  the  northern 
latitudes. 

A  messenger  had  been  sent  to  the  syssel- 
man,  the  woman  told  him.  In  all  probability 
he  would  arrive  before  noon  on  the  morrow, 
after  which  Clitheroe's  burial  could  take 
place  as  soon  as  Laurence  desired;  so,  prom- 
ising to  come  ashore  in  the  morning,  he  again 
entered  the  boat  and  was  rowed  off  to  the 
Westray. 


[106] 


CHAPTER  X 


AFTER  making  the  necessary  declarations  be- 
fore the  sysselman,  Laurence  paid  the  mod- 
est sum  demanded  by  the  folks  of  Langholt 
for  funeral  expenses,  and  hastened  back  on 
board  as  soon  as  possible.  The  weather  still 
kept  fine,  and  the  crew,  though  short-handed, 
worked  well,  so  that  the  Westray  arrived  in 
Leith  in  but  two  days  over  the  week.  In 
another  two  he  had  handed  the  trawler  over 
to  her  new  skipper,  drawn  the  money  lying 
to  his  credit  at  the  office,  locked  his  sea-kit 
in  his  room  at  Anstruther's,  and,  without  a 
word  of  farewell  or  explanation  to  any  soul 
in  Leith,  was  speeding  south  as  fast  as  the 
Edinburgh-London  express  could  carry  him. 

He  rode  third  class.  "No  use  wasting 
money  yet,"  he  told  himself.  "That'll  begin 
later  on — when  I've  got  into  the  swim.  I'll 
go  to  Pat  Dwyer  first.  He  '11  know  the  ropes 
— if  he  hasn't  got  married  in  the  last  two 
years."  Biding  straight  from  King's  Cross 
to  Dwyer 's  office  in  Chancery  Lane,  he  de- 
manded to  see  him. 

A  young  solicitor  is  of  all  men  the  most 
readily  accessible  in  office  hours,  so,  though 

[107] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

Laurence's  clothes  were  rough  serge,  his  hat 
half  a  year  old,  and  his  manner  to  the  clerks 
little  short  of  insult,  he  yet  was  soon  ushered 
into  his  old  friend's  private  room. 

Dwyer  looked  up  from  the  table  as  he  en- 
tered, polite  inquiry  in  his  uplifted  eyebrows. 

1  'And  what  can  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
doing  for  you,  sir?"  he  asked. 

''You  can  try  and  polish  your  memory  a 
bit,  Pat  Dwyer, ' '  Laurence  answered.  ' '  And 
if  you  drop  that  de  haut  en  has  manner  you'll 
do  no  harm. ' ' 

" Saints  above !  It's  Laurie  Averil!"  He 
was  out  of  his  chair  in  a  moment,  and  the 
men  gripped  hands.  "And  yet  'tisn't  the  old 
Laurence,  somehow.  What  the  blazes  have 
you  been  doing  with  yourself,  man!  Navvy- 
ing?  Look  at  your  hands — and  you  must  be 
six  inches  bigger  round  the  chest.  What  is 
it,  my  returned  prodigal?  The  husks  of  the 
swine  never  did  that  for  you.  You've  been 
living  on  stolen  pork." 

"I've   been  living   among   the   swine   all 

right,"  Laurence  answered.     "And  a  pig's 

life's  no  catch,  Pat,  my  dear.    And  now  I've 

—I've  made  my  little  pile,  and  I've  come 

back  to  town  to  do  some  of  it  in,  and  you've 

got  to  help.  .  .  .  Curse  your  business.    Your 

business  first  is  to  give  me  a  line  to  your 

tailor  and  tell  me  where  I'm  to  stay.    I  must 

[108] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

lay  low  a  couple  of  days  until  I  get  some 
decent  duds,  I  suppose,  and  then,  oh  ho! 
we'll  rogue  and  we'll  range.  Where  do  the 
boys  foregather  now,  Pat?  Are  there  many 
of  'em  in  town?  And  what's  on  at  the 
theaters  1 

"Oh,  man  alive,  it's  good  to  be  back  in 
dear,  dirty  London  again.  Do  you  know,  I 
enjoyed  coming  here  from  King's  Cross  as 
much  as  if  I  was  a  country  yokel  riding  in 
a  real  proper  taxi  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life.  I've  been  living  in  the  bottomless  pit, 
old  man.  Haven't  spoken  to  an  educated 
man  or  kissed  a  decently  dressed  woman  for 
two  years." 

"Whe-whew!"  Dwyer  whistled  through 
his  teeth.  "This  is  not  the  Laurence  Averil 
we  knew.  'Eogue  and  range — kiss  a  well- 
dressed  woman' — what  the  deuce?  You've 
been  finishing  your  education,  Master 
Laurie. ' ' 

"Wer  liebt  nicJit  wein,  weib  und  gesang." 
Laurence  trolled  the  old  students '  song  from 
the  depths  of  his  chest,  to  the  great  wonder- 
ment of  the  clerks  in  the  adjoining  office. 
"Pre-haps  I  have  altered — some.  If  you 
stick  the  most  moral  of  bears  on  hot  plates 
he'll  learn  to  dance.  You'll  see  whether  I've 
learned,  mighty  soon.  I'm  somewhat  out  of 
practice,  and  clumsy,  maybe;  but  my  heart's 
[109] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

in  it,  and  I'll  do  my  best,  and  you  shall  in- 
troduce me  to  partners,  my  worthy  Master 
of  Ceremonies.  Now,  what  do  we  do  to- 
night?" 

Dwyer  deliberated.  "There's  a  decent 
show  at  the  Alhambra.  Manuela — she's  the 
last  new  Spanish  importation — takes  Carmen 
in  the  ballet.  They  say  it's  all  right.  Will 
that  do?" 

' '  Oh,  anything,  man — anything  '11  do.  Man- 
uela, eh!  What's  become  of  Otero?  She 
was  the  leading  light  of  Spanish  dancing 
when  I  went  away.  Not  that  I  took  much 
notice  of  'em  in  those  days.  My  education 
wasn't  completed." 

"Where  are  you  staying?"  Dwyer  asked. 

"Nowhere  yet.  I  told  you  I  wanted  digs. 
My  home  is  my  taxi  at  present,  and  if  you 
look  out  of  the  window  you'll  see  all  my 
Lares  and  Penates  in  one  small  kitbag  on 
its  roof.  What's  it  to  be — an  hotel  for  a  day 
or  two?" 

"Um.  I  don't  know."  He  touched  a  bell. 
"Ask  Mr.  Tyrrell  if  he  can  spare  me  a  mo- 
ment." 

Mr.  Tyrrell,  a  thin,  fair  man,  prematurely 
bald  and  with  forensic  side  whiskers,  was  in- 
troduced to  Laurence  as  "Our  new  partner. 
This  is  Mr.  Averil,  an  old  friend  of  mine. 
He  wants  rooms,  Tyrrell.  What  about  that 
[110] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

furnished  flat  in  New  Cavendish  Street  that 
you  were  speaking  of  last  week?  How  would 
that  do,  Laurence?  Four  rooms — a  fiver  a 
week  or  thereabouts.  It's  a  bit  hot,  but  I 
dare  say  we  could  get  it  for  less  if  you  take 
it  for  the  expiration  of  the  lease. ' ' 

"I  only  want  it  for  a  time,"  Laurence  ex- 
plained. "I'll  be  off  to  Paris  next  week, 
likely  enough.  Should  like  a  look  at  Monte 
Carlo  before  the  season's  done,  too.  Let's 
go  see  the  place,  and  then  if  it  suits,  and  the 
sticks  and  fittings  are  decent,  I'll  take  it  for 
a  month,  anyway.  Come  round  and  show  it 
to  me  now.  Where  can  I  get  a  key?" 

"Oh,  at  the  caretaker's,  for  certain.  But 
I  can't  come  now.  Can  you  amuse  yourself 
for  an  hour  ?  Yes  ?  Then  clear  out  and  come 
back  at  half-past  four,  and  I'm  your  man." 

Laurence  paid  his  chauffeur,  sent  his  bag 
upstairs  by  a  clerk,  and  turned  down  Chan- 
cery Lane  towards  the  Strand  and  Fleet 
Street. 

The  roaring  torrents  of  life  flowing  east 
and  west  surged  in  his  ears  like  the  sound  of 
a  sea,  and  he  stood  by  the  Law  Courts  in  a 
daze  of  happiness.  This  was  coming  back  to 
life,  in  all  good  earnest.  His  face  radiant 
with  the  joy  of  it  all,  he  sauntered  down  the 
Strand,  his  feet  light  and  springy  on  the 
good  paving  under  him,  as  full  of  idle  de- 
[111] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

light  as  a  holidaying  schoolboy.  This  was 
resurrection — nothing  less.  He  could  have 
sung  aloud  for  sheer  blitheness  of  heart. 
This  was  worth  waiting  two  years  for.  Let 
the  dead  past  bury  its  dead — the  future  take 
care  of  itself.  Here  was  the  glorious  present 
to  be  lived.  Carpe  Diem  should  be  his  motto. 

He  climbed  on  a  westward-bound  'bus  and 
went  as  far  as  Piccadilly  Circus,  rejoicing 
in  the  afternoon  sunlight  and  crowds  every 
inch  of  the  way.  To  think  he  could  ever  have 
trodden  these  streets  unmoved! — that  exile 
should  be  needed  before  he  could  perceive 
their  beauties,  or  enjoy  immersion  in  the 
great  turmoil,  in  this  full  tide  of  life.  Here 
things  moved — here  things  were  done.  "Man 
is  naturally  gregarious,"  he  said  aloud  to 
himself.  "It's  only  to  have  tasted  the  lone- 
liness of  those  cursed  northern  waters  to  be 
sure  of  that. '  ' 

The  chauffeur  overheard  his  muttering. 
He  turned  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"What  say?"  he  asked. 

"I  said  it  was  good  to  get  back  to  life 
again, ' '  Laurence  told  him. 

"Y*  don't  look  as  if  you'd  been  dead — 
perticler,"  the  man  said,  glancing  at  his 
bronzed  skin  and  brown  beard. 

"I  have,  then;  worse  than  dead  for  two 
years,"  Laurence  replied. 
[112] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

The  man,  observing  his  work-worn  hands, 
merely  nodded,  forming  his  own  conclusions. 

"Done  time,  that  cove,"  he  remarked  to 
the  conductor  after  Laurence  had  left  the 
'bus.  ' '  Been  worse  'n  dead  for  two  years,  he 
said.  More  likely  three — he  never  got  that 
color  and  them  'ands  through  indoor  labor. 
Quarryin',  likely — Portland  or  Princetown, 
I  expect.  Spoke  like  a  toff,  too.  I  lay  'e  'as 
a  time  for  the  next  week  or  two,  if  Vs  got 
the  brass."  In  which  sentiment  Laurence, 
had  he  heard  it,  would  have  heartily  con- 
curred. 

He  returned  to  Dwyer  &  Tyrrell 's  offices 
just  before  five,  to  find  Dwyer  waiting  for 
him.  A  cab  was  called,  and  the  two  men 
set  off  for  New  Cavendish  Street  together. 

"And  now,"  Dwyer  said,  "perhaps  you'll 
tell  me  where  you've  been,  and  what  you've 
done,  and  what  you're  going  to  do  next?" 

Laurence  leaned  over  his  knees,  gazing 
straight  before  him  over  the  horse 's  back. 

"I'll  tell  you  as  much  as  I  please.  I've 
had  a  rough  trip — a  ghastly  rough  trip,  Pat. 
I've  made  money,  and  I've  come  back  here 
to  spend  it.  I  want  amusement.  I  want 
dinners  and  suppers;  I  want  theaters  and 
music  and  evil  company  of  the  washed  and 
scented  and  bedecked  pattern.  I  remember 
you  for  a  reprobate — how  often  have  I  called 
[113] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

you  a  fool  for  it,  eh? — and  I  want  you  to 
introduce  me  to  a  few  people  who'll  help  me 
play  the  fool  myself.  Is  that  plain?" 

"M — yes.  Somewhat.  You  certainly  have 
altered.  To  come  to  town  with  the  deliberate 
intent  of  a  spree  is  distinctly  a  rural  idea. 
Most  of  us  find  enough  bother  in  slipping 
from  virtue  occasionally  without  going  to 
seek  for  trouble  from  malice  prepense.  But 
you  were  always  the  methodical  type  of  brute 
that  makes  up  his  mind  what  he'll  do  before 
he  starts  about  it.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  Sir 
Pandarus  of  Troy  is  my  role,  exactly,  all  the 
same." 

"Look  here  "  —Laurence  put  a  hand  on  his 
wrist — "if  you're  going  to  kick — kick,  and 
have  done  with  it.  I  ask  you,  as  a  personal 
favor,  to  introduce  me  to  half  a  dozen  of 
your  friends.  You  used  to  stage-door  dangle 
at  one  time.  Let  me  feed  and  fondle  one  or 
two  of  the  breed  of  hogs  that  spend  their 
lives  at  it,  and  your  duty's  done,  and  you 
can  get  back  to  the  office  and  virtue,  if  you 
like.  Refuse,  if  you  will."  His  eyebrows 
lowered,  his  jaw  projecting  in  dull  animal 
obstinacy.  "It  won't  affect  matters  in  the 
least  degree.  I've  been  kicked  about  in  in- 
tense misery  for  two  years,  old  gentleman. 
I've  lived  like  a  hog  and  with  worse  than 
hogs.  I've  been  crowded  to  the  very  edge  of 
[114] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

murder.  I've  had  to  behave  like  Satan  him- 
self to  get  an  unlovely  living.  I've  never 
had  a  man  care  whether  I  lived  or  died,  ex- 
cept perhaps  one  poor  fool,  and  I  saw  him 
torn  nearly  in  two  before  my  eyes  only  about 
a  fortnight  ago.  My  hand's  against  every 
man,  and  every  man's  hand's  religiously 
against  me.  Never  was  such  an  Ishmael.  I 
care  nothing  for  anybody  on  the  earth  ex- 
cept myself — and,  with  or  without  your  help, 
I'm  going  to  have  the  run  of  my  teeth  for  a 
bit,  before  I  settle  down  to  anything. 

''I've  got  money,  thank  Heaven — no, 
thanks  to  myself,  I  mean.  I  got  it  by  the 
sweat  of  my  brow  and  at  the  risk  of  my  life, 
and  I'll  spend  it  on  myself  as  I  jolly  well 
please.  I  wouldn't  give  a  penny,  a  farthing 
of  it,  to  save  injured  innocence  from  starva- 
tion and  the  street,  I  tell  you  straight. ' ' 

" Who's  asking  you?" 

"  Nobody.  I  know  that.  But  let  me  con- 
tinue to  expound.  Do  you  know 1  I 

told  you  I  hadn't  spoken  to  an  educated 
man  for  two  years.  Let  me  make  the  most 
of  it. 

"I  shall  spend  it  on  myself  solely  and 
simply  in  gratifying  my  animal  appetites.  I 
shall  spend  much  of  it  in  going  about  in  cabs. 
I  begin  to  understand  the  instinct  that  sends 
Jack  ashore  in  large  parties  about  town  in 
[115] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

hired  growlers.  He  waves  flags  also — and 
gets  drunk.  I  haven't  quite  assimilated  the 
flag-waving  instinct  yet;  but  as  to  getting 
drunk — cheer  oh,  Pat!  You  wait  and  see. 
Meanwhile,  this  is  good  enough  to  go  on  with. 
The  chug-chug  of  that  motor,  while  bowling 
smoothly  along  on  decently  laid  road,  is 
music,  man — sublime  music.  Is  this  the 
flat?" 

"Yes.  Come  and  have  a  look  at  it,  and 
stop  your  indecent  protestations,  your  pro- 
claiming aloud  of  evil  intents.  I'll  introduce 
you  to  one  or  two  of  the  'breed  of  hogs'  you 
speak  so  tenderly  of,  and  you  must  do  the 
rest  yourself.  You're  pretty  beastly  in  your 
open  statements,  and  when  I  remember  you 
two  years  ago,  it  strikes  me  that  you've  had 
an  interesting  time,  if  a  rough  one.  How- 
ever, that's  your  affair,  and  if  you  don't 
choose  to  speak  of  it,  you  can  do  the  other 
thing.  How  do  you  like  the  crib?" 

"'Tain't  dear  at  a  fiver  a  week,  is  it?" 
Laurence  asked.  The  place  was  on  the  sec- 
ond floor,  well  lighted,  well  furnished,  and 
well  kept.  "Whose  is  it?" 

"Forget  his  name.  Tyrrell  knows  him. 
Some  sort  of  a  writer,  I  fancy — essays  and 
reviews.  He's  been  ordered  south  for  his 
health — consumptive  tendency,  I  believe. 
Does  that  matter?" 

[116] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"Divvle  a  bit.  It's  an  additional  recom- 
mendation. Who'll  do  for  me?" 

The  hall  porter's  wife  had  done  the  little 
housekeeping  the  late  occupant  required,  they 
were  informed.  "Very  late  hours  'e  kep', 
gentlemen,"  that  functionary  thought  fit  to 
add.  "A  very  quiet,  nice  gentleman  'e  was, 
though,  an'  mostly  'e  dined  out  at  restau- 
rants and  such." 

"Ah!  So  shall  I.  I  shall  also  keep  late 
hours,  but  as  to  being  nice  or  quiet, — well, 
that  you'll  find  out  later.  Now  we'll  go  do 
shopping,  Pat.  Can  I  rake  together  a  suit 
of  dress  duds  at  a  minute's  notice  like  this? 
I  suppose  it  can  be  managed.  And  I  must 
get  a  piano  in,  too.  The  consumptive  prede- 
cessor wasn't  musical,  evidently." 

The  hall  porter  coughed  behind  his  hand, 
viewing  the  new  tenant  of  the  rooms  with 
subdued  interest  from  the  corner  of  his 
eye. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  gentlemen— you  spoke 
of  late  hours,  sir.  Per'aps  I  ought  to  say 
that  piano-playing  and  music  are  gen 'rally 
discontinued  in  the  Mansions  at  eleven  P.M." 

"Are  they?  You  be  sugared!  Then  in 
future  they  won't  be.  See?  If  other  tenants 
object,  you  can  send  in  their  complaints  in 
due  course.  I'm  not  taking  the  place  with 
a  view  to  going  back  to  school." 
[117] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

"Don't  you  be  quite  too  frabjous  an  ass,'* 
Dwyer  requested,  when  they  had  re-entered 
the  cab  and  were  being  driven  back  to  Ox- 
ford Street.  '  *  Just  you  remember,  my  sweet, 
irrepressible  Ishmael,  that  I'm  a  respecta- 
ble, quiet  young  solicitor,  and  that  Tyrrell 's 
my  partner  and  a  good  fellow;  also  that  the 
owner  of  those  sticks  is  a  pal  of  his.  If 
you're  going  to  play  the  fool  and  break  up 
the  'appy  'ome  in  the  exuberance  of  your 
spirits,  you  will  make  things  unpleasant  for 
me. 

"More — you've  been  plain  with  me  to  the 
verge  of  indecency  in  announcing  your  in- 
tentions— in  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  I'm  not 
particularly  interested.  On  other  points  you 
preserve  a  discreet  silence.  Now,  see  here. 
You  were  broke  when  you  went  away.  You 
come  back  inside  of  two  years  with  every  ap- 
pearance of  having  performed  manual  labor 
in  the  open  air ;  and  if  I  can  judge  from  your 
hands  and  eyes,  and  that  little  slip  just  now 
about  Jack  ashore,  I  should  guess  you've 
been  at  sea.  Manual  labor  at  sea  is  not 
highly  paid — no  recent  successful  piracies 
have  been  reported,  as  far  as  I  know — and 
yet  you  talk  of  having  made  a  pile  in  that 
short  time. 

"I  don't  want  to  ask  personal  or  imperti- 
nent questions,  but  as  you,  in  a  manner  of 
[118] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

speaking,  ask  me  to  supply  you  with  creden- 
tials   It's  purely  a  matter  of  business, 

you  understand.  If  you  wanted  to  borrow 
money,  you  know  where  to  come  for  it.  I 
told  you  that  two  years  ago,  didn't  I?  But 
this  is  business.  Play  the  fool  if  you  like, 
and  welcome,  but  kindly  oblige  me  by  pulling 
out  the  soft  stop  occasionally,  and  let  me 
know  beforehand  how  I  stand." 

Laurence  looked  round  at  him,  a  queerly 
curious  expression  in  his  puckered  eyelids. 

"That's  all  right.  I'll  pay  in  a  hundred 
to  your  business  account  as  soon  as  the 
bank's  open  to-morrow,  and  you  can  act  for 
me  with  your  partner's  pal — pay  the  rent 
for  a  month  in  advance.  Will  that  do — er — 
for  a  start?  As  to  playing  the  fool — for  all 
my  talk  and  my  hands  and  my  manners,  I 
haven't  forgotten  the  difference  between 
wardroom  and  fo 'castle  drunk.  .  .  .  What 
I  said  to  the  porter!  Oh  yes!  Only  the  fool 
annoyed  me  with  his  clack,  and  I  thought  he 
might  as  well  understand  from  the  first  that 
I  propose  to  keep  my  own  hours,  and  do  as 
I  please." 

"I  fancy  you  said  something  to  the  same 
effect  before,"  Dwyer  said.  "Now  we'll  get 
about  your  shopping — unless  you'd  like  to 
lead  off  by  smashing  a  few  plate-glass  win- 
dows as  a  declaration  that  you  fear  no  foe 
[119] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

in   shining    armor — or    blue    cloth.     Here's 
your  piano  shop,  for  a  start." 

And  the  London  of  a  June  evening,  beau- 
tiful as  a  jeweled  woman  in  a  shaded  light, 
took  Laurence  to  its  heart  and  made  him 
divinely  happy.  All  the  world  went  to  pleas- 
ure or  to  dine,  and  never  a  lighted  theater 
but  spoke  to  him  of  welcome,  never  a  face 
that  glanced  on  him  from  beneath  the  win- 
dow of  a  passing  cab  but  seemed  to  smile  in 
greeting,  and  the  soft  night  air  on  his  face 
was  like  a  caress.  Wherever  they  stopped 
obsequious  tradesmen  took  his  orders,  backed 
by  Dwyer's  references,  unquestioningly  and 
with  alacrity,  promising  delivery  that  same 
evening  of  the  more  especially  needed  of  his 
purchases.  Dress  clothes  were  not  immedi- 
ately procurable,  but  Dwyer's  tailor,  anx- 
ious to  please,  was  able  to  find  a  suit  which, 
together  with  others  destined  for  a  less  fa- 
vored customer,  he  declared  would  fit  Lau- 
rence well,  and  consented  to  make  a  few 
slight  alterations  and  deliver  the  whole  order 
of  four  suits  to  him  on  the  morrow.  To  boot- 
makers they  went,  to  wine  merchants  and 
glovers,  hatters  and  tobacconists,  Laurence 
spending  money  joyously  and  recklessly 
right  and  left,  and  then  to  dine.  Because 
they  were  not  arrayed  in  evening  wear  they 
partook  of  the  meal  in  a  restaurant  not  usu- 
[120] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

ally  frequented  by  Dwyer's  more  intimate 
acquaintance,  but  that  all  should  be  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  preconceived  ideas,  Lau- 
rence stipulated  for  music;  and  when  cigars 
and  coffee  were  served,  he  felt  the  jagged 
fragment  of  rock  in  his  pocket  almost  with 
disbelief  of  the  past.  Clitheroe's  dying  face 
— he  tried  to  recall  it,  and  the  bitter  wastes 
beneath  which  that  face  now  lay.  They  must 
be  a  dream — and  yet,  if  they  had  never  been, 
could  life  be  so  sweet  as  this  ?  The  contrast 
was  needed,  else  such  happiness  were  impos- 
sible. 

After  dinner  he  demanded  another  ride, 
and  a  cab  took  them  to  Hyde  Park  Corner 
and  back.  "I  want  to  see  the  long  line  of 
cab  lamps  outside  the  clubs,  Pat,"  Laurence 
pleaded.  "Man,  I've  dreamed  of  'em." 

At  the  Alhambra  he  drank  freely,  yet  with 
care.  "Get  drunk?  No  fear.  I  wouldn't 
lose  a  minute — not  a  second  of  it."  The 
moving  rainbow  of  the  ballet,  the  soul-mad- 
dening whine  of  stringed  instruments,  in- 
toxicated him  far  more  than  anything  he 
had  to  drink.  "To  shut  eyes  and  just  listen 
is  the  seventh  heaven,  Pat.  And  to  open 
them  and  see  that" — he  nodded  towards  the 
radiantly  appointed  beauty  of  the  crowded 
stage,  advancing,  retreating,  wreathing  and 
winding  and  grouping  ever  into  new  color 
[121] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

schemes,  revealing  ever  new  beauties  of  face 
and  form.  "Man  alive,  it's  gilding  the  lily. 
There,  that's  a  mixed  metaphor,  but  let  it 
stand.  It's  none  so  bad." 

Amid  the  trailing  robes  of  the  lounge  he 
held  talk,  much  to  Dwyer's  disgust,  with  a 
painted  native  of  the  Faroes.  "You  go  to 
the  deuce,"  he  said,  when  his  companion  re- 
monstrated. "My  taste's  all  right.  I  only 
want  to  speak  to  the  woman  and  stand  her 
a  couple  of  drinks.  I've  been  where  she 
comes  from.  She's  part  of  the  whole  joyous 
scheme  of  this  heaven  of  a  day.  She  pro- 
vides the  chiaroscuro — the  deep  splash  of 
shadow  in  the  foreground  that  brightens  all 
the  coloring  and  rounds  the  forms.  While 
we  talk,  you  go  and  find  a  couple  of  men  to 
come  home  and  have  supper  at  the  digs. 
You  '11  find  me  here  when  you  come  back. ' ' 

He  subsided  into  a  seat  and  talked  Danish 
to  the  woman.  When  Dwyer  came  back  her 
head  was  bent  and  her  lips  shaking. 

"Give  her  money?  Not  likely.  She's  had 
two  whiskies  and  sodas  out  of  me,  and  that's 
all  I  owed  her,"  he  said  afterwards  in  an- 
swer to  inquiry.  '  *  She  looked  a  peg  low,  did 
she?  Likely  enough.  We  talked  of  Ostero 
and  Thorshavn.  Ever  been  there?  No? 
Her  home.  I  suppose  she  was  happy  there, 
once  upon  a  time.  When  I  was  there  I  was 
[122] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

in  direst  misery,  my  friend,  and  I  wanted 
her  clucking  Danish  to  remind  me  of  the  dif- 
ference between  then  and  now.  See?" 

1  'I  see  you're  a  most  infernal  brute," 
Dwyer  said  wrathfully.  "Why  couldn't  you 
leave  the  poor  beast  alone.  She  never 
harmed  you." 

"Nor  I  her.  I've  given  her  two  drinks— 
I  call  that  charity.  You  said  she  was  a  peg 
low  yourself.  Here's  the  flat.  Oh  joy!  Joy 
as  of  harvest ! ' ' 

He  hummed  a  few  bars  of  dance  music 
from  one  of  the  new  light  operas,  shuffling 
his  feet  on  the  pavement  to  beat  time,  and 
breaking  into  the  words  at  the  finish. 
"Come  up,  you  men.  It'll  be  a  scratch  supper 
if  there's  anything  at  all,  but  there's  drinks 
— heaps.  Pat  here  vouches  for  'em ;  I  got  'em 
from  his  man.  And  when  we've  had  tucker 
you  shall  teach  me  this  new  fancy  whist. 
Bridge,  is  it?  Come  up." 

Mixed  cold  foods  made  a  supper  of  sorts, 
and  when  at  half-past  one  Laurence  settled 
down,  a  pile  of  loose  change  at  his  elbow,  to 
be  instructed  in  the  mysteries  of  bridge,  he 
felt  his  cup  of  happiness  was  nearly  full. 


[123] 


CHAPTER  XI 


A  BRIGHT  noon  three  weeks  later  found  Lau- 
rence in  the  demi-toilette  of  shirt-sleeves  be- 
fore his  open  window,  gazing  idly  across  the 
street  at  the  houses  opposite  and  the 
passers-by  upon  the  sunny  pavement  before 
them.  For  a  while  he  stared,  heavy-eyed, 
seeing  nothing,  then,  turning  to  the  empty 
room,  stretched  himself  and  yawned.  ' '  Heigh- 
ho!"  he  said  dully.  "To  think  one  could 
kick  the  bottom  out  of  things  in  less  than 
a  month!  I  half  wish  I  was  at  sea  again." 

Now  there  is  an  unwritten  law  that  how- 
soever man  obeys  the  inexorable  edict, 
"Work  to  eat,"  his  material  and  the  tools 
of  his  calling  shall  surely  react  upon  him, 
marking  on  him  in  some  ineffaceable  way 
the  sign-manual  of  his  craft.  Deeper  than 
gnarled  hands  and  furrowed  brow  the  traces 
of  his  labor  must  inevitably  go;  and  the 
man's  outlook  on  life  and  religion,  his  rela- 
tions towards  his  fellows — nay,  his  very  love 
itself — are  determined  in  no  small  degree  by 
the  toil  in  which  he  labors  for  his  bread. 

And  the  man  who  strives  with  the  ele- 
[124] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

mental  forces  of  nature  walks  in  spirit  apart 
from  all  his  kind.  He  has  his  craftmark 
deep  branded  as  surely  on  his  soul  as  on  his 
knotted  hands.  The  colonist,  the  engineer, 
the  drainer  of  bog  and  marsh,  the  breaker 
of  untilled  land,  all  serve  one  Mistress.  Her 
service  is  not  kind,  and  weaker  men  must 
seek  other,  or  stand  trial  by  her  laws.  She 
has  but  one  punishment  for  all  offenses  what- 
soever— and  that  punishment  is  death.  For 
the  bridge  builder 's  unsteady  girder — Death. 
For  the  clay-founded  dam — Death.  For  the 
unguarded  homestead  set  in  far  lands — 
Death. 

But  the  follower  of  the  sea  is  set  about 
with  this  death  penalty  beyond  them  all.  For 
the  unwary  footstep,  the  indistinct  order,  the 
rotten  spar,  the  ill-kept  hull,  the  falsely  laid 
course — for  all  the  one  doom  sentence, 
against  which  there  is  no  appeal.  Ignorance 
is  no  plea  in  her  stern  courts.  Willful  negli- 
gence or  weariness,  innocence  or  rash  greed, 
alike  are  beat  to  carrion  on  her  lee  shores. 
The  mast  that  human  eye  unwarily  ap- 
praised in  port  snaps  before  the  winter 
gales ;  pampero  or  typhoon  drag  straight  the 
weak  link  of  the  groaning  anchor  chain;  the 
belated  deck  cargo  of  October  shifts,  and  the 
listing  hull  dives  once  too  often. 

Withal,  there  is  some  brave  sincerity  about 
[125] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

her.  "Come,"  says  she,  "and  do  me  service. 
My  face  is  beautiful,  and  new  and  beautiful 
things  have  I  in  one  hand  for  my  servants' 
delight;  but  in  the  other  is  a  naked  sword. 
I  speak  my  warning  plain.  Slip  or  grow 
weary,  and  you  die. 

'  Ye  th'  unharnessed  waves  shall  test,  th'  immediate  gulfa 

condemn. 
Unless  ye  owe  the  fates  a  jest,  guard  how  ye  jest  with 

them.' " 

And  men  look  upon  her  loveliness  and  go, 
knowing  their  doom.  And  many  die.  But 
they  that  live  have  knowledge  of  three  things 
the  town-sheltered  man  may  never  see.  Life 
they  know,  and  death,  too  well ;  but  also  they 
have  seen  her  promises  and  warnings  fulfilled 
in  letter  and  in  spirit  to  the  utmost,  and  lies 
to  them  are  a  weariness  of  the  flesh  for  ever- 
more. Their  craftmark  may  be  seen  within 
their  steady  eyes — and  its  name  is  Truth. 

Laurence's  listless  arms  fell  to  his  sides 
and  he  looked  around  the  room  with  heavy 
eyes.  He  had  discarded  his  beard,  and  his 
clean-shaven  lips  and  jaw  showed  sallow 
against  the  lingering  brown  of  his  cheeks. 
His  face  was  wearied  and  sneering,  and  dark 
pouches  showed  beneath  his  eyes. 

For  three  weeks  he  had,  as  he  himself  said, 
"Lived  forty  hours  in  every  twenty-four," 
[126] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

only  to  learn  what  a  wiser  man  learned  in  the 
same  school  before  him,  that  all — all — ia 
vanity. 

All  had  gone  as  he  had  declared  it  should 
go.  Every  pleasant  folly  that  could  be 
bought  he  had  taken  to  himself;  every  ap- 
petite had  been  sated  to  the  full.  He  had 
frequented  strangely  diverse  places.  Race- 
stands  knew  his  face  as  well  as  the  coulisses 
of  the  theaters,  and  the  best  that  music  and 
the  arts  could  give  him  he  had  enjoyed  to 
the  full.  His  bent  was  eclectic,  if  his  tastes 
were  catholic.  That  which  was  best — most 
costly,  most  sought  after — he  swore  was 
good  enough  for  him;  and  only  the  day  be- 
fore an  afternoon  at  the  Academy  had  pre- 
ceded a  drive  to  and  dinner  at  Richmond  and 
a  riotous  supper  in  this  very  room,  of  which 
evidences  now  lay  in  plenty  around  him. 

The  housekeeper's  perfunctory  tidying  of 
the  table  to  lay  his  breakfast  had  swept  a 
debris  of  cards  and  unsmoked  cigarettes  to 
the  mantelpiece.  A  long  glove  hung  from 
the  heap,  its  fingers  dangling  over  the  fire- 
place, and  beneath  an  armchair  lay  a  dove- 
colored  shoe,  of  quaintly  puritan  cut. 

He  stooped  for  it  and  held  it  at  arm's 
length,  remembering  how  its  owner,  gather- 
ing together  her  voluminous  draperies,  had 
clicked  across  the  pavement  on  its  fellow,  her 
[127] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

stockinged  foot  held  clear  of  the  cool  flag- 
stones, sparrows  hopping  close  about  her, 
fearless  in  the  unfrequented  dawn. 

"I'll  fine  you  for  it,  Lucifer,"  she  had 
laughed  from  the  car  window.  "It's  been 
lost  on  your  premises,  and  I  believe  you've 
stolen  it — all  for  love  of  poor  little  me.  Sen- 
tence of  the  court  will  be  pronounced  in  due 
course — when  you  come  to  see  me  to-morrow. 
No,  it's  to-morrow  now — this  afternoon. 
Home." 

As  Laurence  held  it  in  his  hand  some 
strange  throwback  of  memory — perhaps  the 
jointing  of  the  pavement  suggested  alter- 
nately lapped  deck  plates — brought  Clith- 
eroe's  dead  face  before  him,  and  he  threw 
the  shoe  angrily  behind  the  fender.  ' '  Ugh ! ' ' 
he  said,  and  shivered;  then  sat  down  to  his 
untasted  breakfast. 

Staled  by  late  hours,  his  appetite  was 
poor.  He  drank  some  coffee  and  rummaged 
in  the  heap  upon  the  mantelpiece  for  a  pipe. 
Finding  none,  in  a  whiff  of  temper  he 
dragged  off  the  dangling  glove  and  some 
cigarettes,  letting  them  fall  to  the  floor,  and 
then  retired  to  the  bedroom  to  search  his 
pockets,  on  his  return  opening  and  leaving 
ajar  the  outer  door  of  the  flat  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  housekeeper  when  she  should 
come  to  clear  away  his  breakfast  things. 
[128] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Sinking  into  a  deep  armchair  by  the  win- 
dow, he  blew  clouds  of  smoke  into  the  air, 
idly  watching  their  thinning  flow  towards  the 
open  casement.  Following  them,  his  thoughts 
wandered  into  the  outer  air,  northwards,  to 
Leith,  northwards,  farther  yet,  to  the  banks 
and  the  weariness  of  old  toil. 

How  long  was  it  since?  Years,  surely. 
Impossible  that  a  short  month  ago  he  him- 
self had  been  on  unsteady  decks,  the  sight 
and  sounds  of  the  sea  in  his  eyes  and  ears, 
recollections  of  recent  tragedy  in  his  mind. 

Five  weeks  ago  Clitheroe  was  alive — if  that 
existence  could  be  called  life.  How  the  fool 
of  a  boy  had  worshiped  him !  He  thought  of 
the  mute  testimony  of  the  handkerchief  that 
had  slipped  upon  the  table  beside  the  tum- 
bler, and  compared  it  with  soft-voiced  pro- 
testations, prettily  couched,  that  he  had 
heard  but  a  few  hours  past.  Which  were 
true?  Well  for  him  he  knew.  How  would 
the  future  taste  when  it  came,  if  he  were  weak 
enough  for  one  moment  to  forget  that  the 
soft  protestations  were  only  to  be  bought 
with  money — were  uttered  for  gain  alone! 
Those  same  lips  that  had  whispered  them 
had  laughed  and  called  him  "Lucifer,"  pay- 
ing fearless  tribute  to  the  wicked  strength  in 
him.  Clitheroe  had  worshiped  the  strength 
too,  good  and  bad  alike — if  any  good  there 
[129] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

were.  And  his  payment?  Kicks  and  blows 
and  curses.  "I'll  fine  you  for  it,  Lucifer," 
she  had  said. 

Never  doubt  it!  In  money,  or  money's 
equivalent,  of  course.  Curse  the  money! 
After  all,  it  bought  nothing  worth  having. 
Clitheroe's  dying  curses  were  more  savory. 
At  the  worst,  they  showed  genuine  admira- 
tion of  the  man  he  had  first  heard  utter  them. 
Which  of  his  genial  acquaintance — which  of 
the  owners  of  the  soft  voices  and  sweet  lips 
— would  die,  racked  with  agony,  in  stoic  si- 
lence, because  they  imagined  he  might  give 
to  them  a  place  in  his  memory! 

For  all  the  toil  and  cruelty  of  that  life,  it 
made  men.  He  looked  at  his  scarred  hands 
with  the  broken  finger  nails,  the  roughened 
skin.  To  hide  them  he  had  gone  gloved  on 
all  possible  occasions ;  but  the  fact  that  they 
had  excited  no  remark  when  uncovered 
angered  him  again.  A  hunchback,  a  squint, 
a  hydrocephalic  idiot's  defect  would  have 
been  passed  over  in  like  silence.  What  would 
the  fools  have  said  if  the  gnarled  hands  had 
not  been  paying  for  their  approval  I 

Oh,  he  was  weary  and  sick  of  it  all!  He 
had  gulped  too  deeply — a  wiser  man  would 
have  gone  more  deliberately  about  it — and 
now  he  was  sick. 

He  had  meant  to  go  to  Paris,  he  remem- 
[130] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

bered.  But  what  was  the  use?  It  would  be 
the  same  thing  there — the  same  allurements, 
the  same  follies,  the  same  weariness  of  the 
flesh,  ill-used  by  excesses. 

The  sea  life,  after  all,  gave  one  good  thing 
— Power.  The  man  gave  orders — the  under- 
man  obeyed  them;  and  sternness  of  strife 
must  first  distinguish  man  from  underman. 
What  could  this  life  show  half  so  sweet? 
Obedience?  Yes.  Swift  and  graceful  obedi- 
ence, soft  acquiescence,  pleasant  smiles, 
pretty  speeches,  kisses  bought  to  order.  But 
money  bought  them,  not  the  strong  right 
arm,  the  clear  command.  Any  puny  fool  with 
a  rent  roll  could  outbuy  him  in  the  market. 

He  tried  to  picture  any  one  of  the  men 
who  had  been  his  guests  of  the  night  before 
cowing  the  crew  of  the  Fairy  Belle,  and  half 
regretted  he  had  not  brought  maimed  Jock 
Menzies  with  him  as  servant  to  swell  his  poor 
triumph  here.  Uncouth  Caliban  would  have 
heightened  the  beauties  of  Lais  and  Thais 
and  Rhodope ;  the  broad  shoulders  and  bull- 
neck,  bent  by  brute  force,  have  shown  well 
beside  the  pleasantries  of  the  fools  who  now 
fulfilled  his  wishes  at  the  pull  of  his  purse- 
strings. 

Yet  Mesdemoiselles  Lais  and  company  were 
fair — most  fair — dazzlingly  fair.  He  thought 
of  a  delicately  molded,  sweet-scented  head 
[131] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

that  had  bent  over  and  kissed  his  own  in  fare- 
well as  he  lay  in  that  very  chair  that  morning. 

"What's  the  use  of  getting  sour  with  it?" 
he  said  aloud,  rising  and  crossing  to  the  fire- 
place to  knock  the  ashes  from  his  finished 
pipe.  "It's  all  sham — empty  sham.  Any 
man  knows  that.  But  so's  all  life;  and  this 
is  a  pretty  part  of  the  sham,  anyway. ' '  Then, 
in  answer  to  a  knock  at  the  door:  "Come  in. 
You  can  clear  away  the  things." 

The  order  was  received  in  silence,  and  he 
turned  round  to  find  a  strange  girl  standing 
where  his  housekeeper  should  have  been. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said.  "I  had 
no  idea  Mr.  Webster  had  any  visitors.  The 
door  was  open,  and  I  walked  in.  Please  can 
I  see  him?" 

Laurence,  devoid  of  reverence  for  all  wom- 
ankind, looked  her  up  and  down.  She  was 
slim  of  figure  and  unsuitably  dressed,  he  de- 
cided. Her  brown  tweed  walking  dress, 
though  well  made,  was  for  March  wear  rather 
than  for  June.  Her  hat  was  of  brown,  some 
white  about  it ;  brown  hair  lay  under  it,  fram- 
ing a  brown-eyed  pale  face  over  a  little  white 
neck,  and  in  her  ungloved  hand  she  held  a 
few  large  envelopes. 

"Who,  did  you  say?"  he  asked. 

"Mr.  Webster,  please." 

' '  I  never  heard  of  him. ' ' 
[132] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 


"Then  what  are  you  doing  in  his  rooms?" 
She  looked  bravely  in  his  eyes,  and  Laurence 
caught  himself  think- 
ing of  the  little  common 
mountain  butterfly  that 
sits  in  shadow  like  a 
dead  leaf,  its  wings 
clipped  tight,  until  in 
answer  to  a  stray  sun- 
beam it  flips  them  open 
in  a  glory  of  warmth 
and  golden  brown. 

"Eh?"  he  said  stu- 
pidly. 

"What  are  you  do- 
ing in  Mr.  Webster's 
rooms!"  She  backed 
towards  the  door. 

Laurence  laughed  at 
the  faint  alarm  in  her 
face. 

"They're  my  rooms. 
If  you  want  the  man 
who  had  them  before 
me,  you're  a  bit  late. 
I  believe  he's  in  Italy, 
or  somewhere  south. 
Wasn't  he  consump- 
tive?" 

The  girl  nodded,  and  her  figure  slid  into 
[133] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

lines  of  weariness  at  once.    '  *  Do  you  know  his 
address?"  she  asked. 

I  *  No.  I  expect  Mr.  Tyrrell — Messrs.  Dwyer 
&  Tyrrell,  of  Chancery  Lane — can  tell  you. 
I  got  the  rooms  through  them.    Is  it  any- 
thing important?" 

"No,  thank  you.  Yes,  though;  it  is  to  me 
— rather.  Messrs.  Dyer  &  Tyrrell,  did  you 
say?" 

" Dwyer  &  Tyrrell.  I'm  going  there  my- 
self as  soon  as  I  have  my  coat  on.  Shall  I 
give  you  a  lift?  You  look  tired." 

II  Thank  you.     I  am — a  little.    I've  been 
walking  this  morning. ' ' 

"Sit  down,  then.  I'll  be  back  in  ten  min- 
utes." 

He  retired  to  his  bedroom  to  complete  his 
toilet.  On  his  return  he  found  the  girl  seated, 
regarding  the  disarray  of  the  room  with 
grave  disapproval,  and  her  manner  to  him 
was  chilling  in  its  politeness. 

On  the  pavement,  "I  think  I'll  walk,"  she 
said,  "if  you  don't  mind.  I'm  rested  now." 

The  cab  wheeled  up  beside  the  curb. 

"But  I  do  mind."  Laurence  was  feeling 
like  a  naughty  child,  caught  in  misdeeds. 
"I'm  going  the  same  way,  I  tell  you.  Get 
in." 

The  girl  looked  up  in  surprise.     "I  beg 
your  pardon,"  she  said. 
[134] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

''I  beg  yours.  I'm  afraid  my  manner  is 
a  little  brusque  at  times.  It's  due  to  want 
of  feminine  society,  perhaps.  Won't  you  get 
in?  It  seems  silly,  when  we're  both  going 
the  same  way.  ..." 

She  climbed  in,  somewhat  mollified — then 
stiffened  again.  "Your  room  hinted  at  no 
lack  of  feminine  society. " 

"I  had  a  mixed  supper-party  last  night," 
Laurence  explained.  "I'm  afraid  they  got 
larking  and  made  the  place  untidy.  A  bach- 
elor's diggings  are  rarely  remarkable  for  or- 
der, are  they?" 

"I  suppose  not.  Oh,  this  is  nice."  She 
leaned  back  against  the  cushions,  watching 
the  sunlit  life  of  Oxford  Street  flying  past,  and 
Laurence  looked  round  at  her  pale  face.  Reg- 
ular features,  long  lashes,  pink  lips — "That's 
anemia,  caused  by  under-feeding,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "They  ought  to  show  scarlet 
against  that  skin."  He  looked  at  her  hands, 
but  she  had  gloved  them  in  his  absence,  and 
they  told  him  nothing. 

"You  like  it?  So  do  I.  Do  you  know, 
when  I  came  back  to  London  three  weeks  ago 
I  swore  I'd  spend  all  my  spare  time  driving 
about  in  taxis." 

"And  have  you?" 

"Some  of  it.  The  novelty  wears  off  after 
[135] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

a  while.    I  wonder  you're  as  pleased  with  it, 
living  in  town  as  you  do. ' ' 

"I  don't  use  cabs,  you  see.  The  humble 
'bus  and  Twopenny  Tube  serve  my  needs. 
.  .  .  Oh,  is  this  the  place?  Thank  you  very 
much.  Good-morning." 

"What  brings  you  here?"  Dwyer  asked 
him. 

"Little  brown  girl  in  a  cab.  She  came  to 
the  digs  seeking  one  Webster.  I  told  her 
Tyrrell  'ud  likely  know  his  address,  and 
swore  I  was  coming  here  myself,  and  would 
she  like  a  lift  ?  That's  all.  How's  your  head 
after  last  night?" 

"All  right.  Glad  I  left  early,  though.  You 
look  like  chewed  string.  Are  you  standing 
me  a  lunch?" 

"No.  Don't  think  so.  Half  a  mind  to 
chase  little  brown  girl  again  and  stand  her 
one — if  she'll  take  it  on.  There's  TyrrelPs 
door  shutting.  I'm  off." 

She  was  half-way  to  the  Law  Courts  before 
he  caught  her  up. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  and  she  turned 
round  to  find  him  standing  hat  in  hand.  "  It 's 
fearful  cheek,  I  know;  but — but  I'm  quite 
alone  in  London,  and — and,  please  will  you 
tell  me  where  I  can  get  a  decent  lunch?" 

She  looked  him  steadily  between  the  eyes. 
[136] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"You  should  take  notice  of  women's  dresses 
more  carefully,"  she  said.  "You  gave  me  a 
lift  from  your  rooms  here  in  a  cab  not  ten 
minutes  ago,  and  now  you  ask  me  to  tell  you 
where  to  lunch — you,  who  have  been  in  town 
three  weeks.  Perhaps,  next  time  you  desire 
to  insult  a  woman  in  the  street  you'll  make 
sure  of  her  back  view  before  you  begin." 

Laurence  laughed  uneasily.  "You  mis- 
take," he  said.  "Better  be  plain,  I  suppose. 
I  wasn't  mistaken  in  your  back  view.  I  knew 
perfectly  well  who  you  were,  and  I  followed 
you  from  Dwyer  &  Tyrrell's  to  ask  you  to 
lunch  with  me,  only — only  I  lost  courage 
when  you  turned  round,  and  so  I  started  with 
a  lie. 

1 '  See  here.  This  much  is  true.  I  am  alone 
for  an  hour  or  two,  and  I  want  some  lunch. 
Also,  I  hate  having  a  meal  alone — have  had 
too  many  so — and  I  shall  be  very  glad  if 
you'll  share  lunch  with  me.  I  don't  deserve 
it,  I  know" — he  did  his  best  to  look  contrite 
—"but  truly  I'll  never  so  much  as  ask  your 
name.  Look  at  it  from  a  business  point  of 
view.  You  find  the  amusement ;  I,  the  lunch. 
And  I  swear  I  never  meant  to  insult  you. 
That 's  all.  Will  you  come ! ' ' 

She  looked  up  at  him  keenly,  then  laughed 
a  little,  despite  herself.  "You're  plain 
spoken.  I'll  give  you  credit  for  that.  And 
[137] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

— yes,  I'll  come,  if  you'll  promise  to  behave. 
Here's  more  plain  speaking  for  you.  I  want 
lunch;  it'll  cost  me  eighteenpence  if  I  buy  it 
myself,  and  I  haven't  many  eighteenpences 
to  spare.  Therefore  I  accept  your  offer,  not 
because  I  like  you  or  approve  of  your  man- 
ners, but  because  it  saves  eighteenpence. 
See?" 

" Perfectly.  Now  we're  on  even  terms. 
Hi! — you."  He  hailed  a  passing  cab  and 
helped  the  girl  in.  ''Prince's." 

She  gasped.  * '  Oh  no ! "  she  said.  ' '  I  can 't 
allow  that.  Why,  it's  fearfully  expensive.  I 
won't  go  there." 

"Then  go  where  you  please — when  the  cab 
stops.  I'm  going  there,  and  you  promised 
to  share  my  lunch.  Of  course,  if  you  won't, 
I  can't  pull  you  in  by  your  hair.  I  meant 
to  go  to  a  quieter  place  if  you  hadn't  pitched 
your  prospective  eighteenpenny  lunch  in  my 
face. ' ' 

"Then  please  do,  now.  Really  and  truly, 
I  shall  be  quite  unhappy  there.  Look  at  my 
dress!" 

"It  looks  very  nice,"  Laurence  said,  eying 
it. 

' '  Heaven  send  men  eyes !  Why,  it 's  a  win- 
ter frock — spring,  anyway.  And  you  want  to 
take  me  to  Prince's  in  it  on  a  June  day. 
Please — please — go  somewhere  else."  There 
.[138] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

was  real  pleading  in  her  voice  in  spite  of  her 
smiling  face. 

"How  will  the  Criterion  do!" 

1 *  No. ' '  She  shook  her  head.  '  *  I  want  some 
grubby  little  Soho  restaurant  where  nobody '11 
be  well  dressed.  I  thought  you  men  always 
knew  of  some  little  place  where  the  wines 
are  wondrous  and  the  cooking  unimpeachable, 
and  you  can't  see  your  neighbor  for  tobacco 
smoke. ' ' 

Laurence  laughed  outright.  "Begad!  I'm 
glad  I  risked  your  snubbing.  No;  I  can't 
oblige  you  in  all  your  requirements,  but  I 
can  take  you  to  a  place  where  the  wines  are 
drinkable,  I  believe,  and  the  cookery  isn't  bad. 
But  the  rooms  are  large  and  too  well  ven- 
tilated to  get  full  of  smoke,  and  the  service 
is  unromantically  clean.  However,  it 's  unde- 
niably in  Soho.  Will  that  do?" 

"Very  nicely,  I'm  sure.  I'll  forgive  the 
want  of  smoke.  "Where  is  it?" 

Laurence  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  win- 
dow. "Not  Prince's.  Corner  of  Rupert 
Street,"  he  called  to  the  chauffeur;  and  then, 
to  the  girl,  "That  answers  you  too,  doesn't 
it?" 

They  walked  together  up  the  shady  side  of 

Rupert  Street  to  the  restaurant  in  which  he 

had  dined  upon  the  evening  of  his  arrival. 

By  day  it  proved  to  be  clean  and  white  and 

[139] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

pretty,  with  snowy  napery  and  brilliant  glass 
upon  its  tables,  and  his  companion  nodded 
approval.  "I  like  this.  The  people  aren't 
too  well  dressed,  and  so  I  don't  feel  so  much 
ashamed  of  myself.  They  look  nice  and 
cheerful,  too."  She  regarded  the  menu 
favorably,  and  at  Laurence's  bidding  set  her- 
self to  select  from  the  modest  carte  du 
jour. 

Laurence  looked  around  him  curiously,  his 
eyes  opened  at  her  naive  expressions  of  pleas- 
ure. Yes,  the  place  was  cheerful.  It  had 
pleased  him  at  his  first  visit,  he  remembered ; 
but  any  place  where  meals  were  decently 
served  would  have  done  that  then.  Since  that 
first  evening  his  lines  had  been  cast  in  pleas- 
anter  places.  Were  they  pleasanter,  though? 
His  glance  fell  on  the  little  happy  face  be- 
neath the  big  brown  hat.  No ;  he  'd  be  hanged 
if  they  were.  More  expensive — yes.  Better 
food  and  choicer  wines,  perhaps.  A  gour- 
mand might  perceive  the  advantage  of  being 
fed  by  a  chef  with  a  world- wide  reputation, 
but  who  was  he,  after  all,  to  pick  and  choose  f 
Was  he  either  gourmand  or  gourmet? — he 
who  for  two  years  had  eaten  without  com- 
plaint, almost  without  remark,  the  wretched 
food  that  was  set  before  him  on  a  trawler. 
And  those  places  were  stiff — constrained. 
Well-dressed  immorality  might  enter  there, 
[140] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

and  welcome,  it  was  true — but  after  six  not 
even  purity  itself  in  any  raiment  but  ac- 
cepted evening  wear.  Pah !  what  a  silly  sham 
it  all  had  been. 

The  girl  called  his  attention  to  the  menu, 
pointing  with  an  ungloved  finger ;  and  though 
her  little  hands  gave  him  no  clew  to  her  oc- 
cupation, he  saw  with  satisfaction  that  they 
were  strong  and  shapely.  Scarcely  glancing 
at  the  card,  he  nodded  consent  to  her  sug- 
gestions, and  resumed  his  inspection  of  the 
crowded  room.  At  the  next  table  two  bushy- 
haired  Scandinavians — man  and  maid- 
talked  in  low  voices.  He  could  catch  a  word 
here  and  there  that  sounded  like  Danish,  and 
felt  well  pleased  at  the  recognition.  On  the 
other  side  a  young  Jewess  vivaciously  told  a 
long  story  to  two  older  women,  perhaps  her 
mother  and  aunt,  with  bright  expression  and 
swift  gestures  of  her  hands,  the  two  listeners 
laughing  merrily  at  the  recitation.  At  half 
a  dozen  tables  more  were  Frenchmen,  Span- 
iards, and  Italians  with  their  womankind, 
eating  and  drinking,  smoking  and  chattering, 
and  unrestrained  laughter  and  tobacco  smoke 
ascended  into  the  air  above  them.  The  light- 
hearted  cheerfulness  of  the  place  moved  Lau- 
rence to  contentment,  and  he  turned  to  the 
girl  again  with  a  smile. 

"There's  plenty  of  smoking,  since  you  de- 
[141] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

manded  it,"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  the  place 
is  so  well  ventilated." 

"I'm  not,"  she  answered.  "I  don't  want 
to  be  hidden  from  my  neighbors  here.  Why 
is  it  foreigners  are  always  so  jolly — so  much 
happier  than  we  English?" 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "Is  that  a  com- 
pliment to  me?" 

"You?  Oh  no.  You  look  quite  cheerful 
now.  Do  you  know,  I  thought  you  looked  an 
awful  bear  this  morning." 

"Did  I?  I  felt  sour,  and  that's  a  fact. 
I've  been  keeping  late  hours  and  playing  the 
fool  generally  and  I  suppose  it  got  hold  of 
my  liver,  or  something." 

"Moral,  don't  keep  late  hours.  I  don't,  if 
I  can  help  it — and  when  I  do,  it's  work.  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  you  were  the  sort  to 
play  the  fool,  as  you  call  it,  or  do  any  silly 
things  like  that." 

"Indeed.  And  what  sort — as  you  call  it — 
would  you  think  I  am ! ' ' 

She  put  her  head  on  one  side,  looking 
straight  into  his  eyes — and  again  came  the 
irresistible  suggestion  of  golden  brown  but- 
terfly wings. 

"I — I'm  not  sure.    I  don't  think  you're  a 

good  man — not  Sunday-school  good,  anyhow. 

I  'd  rather  suspect  you  of  murder  than  minor 

peccadilloes.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  know — and  as 

[142] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

I  shan't  ever  see  you  again,  I  can't  see  that 
it  matters.    Can  you?" 

' 'No — not  if  you're  never  to  see  me  again, 
as  you  say.  Now  what  fish  are  you  going  to 
have  ? ' ' 

They  chose  fish,  laughing  and  chattering 
merrily  over  the  translation  of  the  menu. 
Cdbillaud,  he  insisted,  was  cod;  she  was 
equally  positive  it  was  not.  "I  don't  know 
what  cabillaud  means,"  she  admitted,  "but  I 
do  know  morue  is  French  for  codfish." 

"Then  we'll  agree  to  differ,"  Laurence  de- 
cided. 

"One  would  think  you  knew  all  there  was 
to  know  of  French,"  she  pouted. 

"I  know  all  there  is  to  know  of  cod,  at  all 
events, ' '  he  said. 

"Do  you?    How?" 

"I've  been  catching  the  beastly  things 
these  last  two  years." 

"You?  How  queer!  But  I  thought  cod 
were  taken  on  the  deep-sea  fishery — hun- 
dreds of  miles  from  shore — in  fishing  boats. ' ' 

"In  trawlers.  That's  so.  I  was  skipper 
of  one  until  last  month, "  Laurence  confessed, 
and  was  rewarded  by  a  flash  of  interest  from 
the  brown  eyes. 

"Were   you?    How   interesting!    Fancy, 
you !    I  thought  you  were  just  an  idler.    Tell 
me  all  about  it.    Isn't  it  a  rough  life?" 
[143] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

1 '  Bough  ?  My  faith ! ' '  His  voice  dropped, 
and  under  cover  of  the  buzz  of  talk  around 
them  he  told  her  of  the  dread  toil  that  had 
soured  his  life.  Because  those  new  bright 
eyes  were  upon  him,  with  the  girl's  own 
brave  individuality  behind  them,  he  told  his 
tale  strongly  and  well,  dropping  the  mean- 
ingless idioms  of  daily  life  from  his  speech 
and  replacing  them  by  the  rude,  clear-cut  col- 
loquialisms of  the  north,  whenever  he  deemed 
them  comprehensible  to  her.  And  the  knowl- 
edge— he  saw  it  in  her  eyes — the  knowledge 
of  all  that  bitter  past  had  meant  to  him 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  girl's  heart,  and 
her  eyes  met  his  in  comradeship — the  brave 
comradeship  of  toil.  Once  she  put  out  a  hand 
as  though  to  place  it  on  his  own,  but,  remem- 
bering her  surroundings,  withdrew  it.  Then 
Laurence,  vowing  to  himself  to  move  her  to 
that  action  again,  told  of  Clitheroe's  death 
in  gentler  speech  than  had  passed  his  lips 
for  many  a  day,  feeling  himself  that  he  had 
lost  one  who  had  loved  him.  As  he  had  de- 
sired, the  hand  came  out  and  touched  his 
own,  but  when  he  saw  her  lips  shake  and  the 
moist  eyes  as  she  said  softly,  "Oh,  don't! 
Oh,  the  pity  of  it !"  he  only  felt  shame  in  his 
success. 

"And  now,"  he  asked,  "won't  you  talk  of 
your  work!" 

[144] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"Me!  I'm  a  writer— of  sorts.  I  write  for 
women's  papers  generally— fashion  notes, 
short  stories,  anything  I  can  sell.  Sometimes 
I  get  reference  work — grubbing  in  the  British 
Museum,  you  know.  I've  just  done  some  for 
Mr.  Webster.  That's  how  I  came  to  your 
rooms  this  morning.  I  ought  to  have  done 
it  a  fortnight  ago,  but  I've  been  busy,  and 
so  it  had  to  wait.  Now  he's  gone  away,  and 
the  MS. '11  be  hunting  him  about,  and  I  shall 
have  to  wait  for  my  money,  bother  him!" 

"Can't  I !"  Laurence  began,  but  si- 
lenced himself  at  the  danger-signal  in  her 
eyes. 

"Certainly  not.  Thank  you,  all  the  same. 
I'm  sorry  you  should  even  suggest " 

"You  didn't  let  me  suggest  anything," 
Laurence  said  shortly.  Then  at  the  flush  in 
the  girl's  face,  "But  I  will  own  I  meant  to 
ask  you  if  you'd  accept  a  loan  from  me.  So 
you  didn't  jump  at  a  wrong  conclusion— 
and  you  may  look  angry,  if  you  like.  You'll 
be  more  comfortable  so.  You  needn't  look 
upset,  anyway." 

She  glanced  at  him,  half  quizzical,  half 
angry. 

"You  really  are Do  they  teach 

thought-reading  on  fishing  boats?    Goodness 

me!    It's  half -past  two.    I  must  be  going. 

Thank  you  for  the  lunch.    I'm  glad  I  came. 

[145] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

I've  enjoyed  it  very  much."  She  held  out 
her  hand  frankly.  *  *  No,  you  can 't  come  with 
me.  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  keep  an  appointment. 
Sit  here  and  finish  your  smoke.  Good-by." 
With  a  handshake  and  a  bright  smile  she 
was  gone,  and  Laurence  sat  and  looked  at 
her  empty  chair,  at  her  crumpled  serviette 
flung  upon  the  table,  and  the  room  suddenly 
became  empty,  stupid,  and  uninteresting. 


[146] 


CHAPTER  XII 


LAURENCE  finished  his  cigarette,  paid  his  bill, 
and  came  out  into  the  sunlight  with  his  head 
in  a  whirl.  Here  was  a  shattering  of  ideas ! 
That  he,  the  brute,  the  unchained  danger  to 
all  who  opposed  his  desires — What  was  his 
last  nickname  ?  Lucifer  ?  A  pretty  testimony 
to  disposition  that! — to  think  that  he,  after 
laughing  and  chattering  over  a  lunch  with  a 
girl  he  had  never  seen  till  that  day — whose 
very  name  he  did  not  know — should  find  his 
Armida's  garden  dusty  and  dry,  his  Dead 
Sea  apples  more  full  of  bitter  ash  even  than 
he  had  before  guessed  them  to  be.  He  had 
come  to  London  intent  on  folly  and  debauch- 
ery, and  in  all  things  had  done  as  he  had 
vowed  to  do.  Tired  of  the  game  he  certainly 
had  been  only  that  morning,  but  not  tired 
with  this  fullness  of  disgust.  And  all  be- 
cause two  brown  eyes  had  looked  into  his 
own,  and  a  soft  voice  had  said,  " Don't!  Oh, 
don't!  Oh,  the  pity  of  it!" 

And  now  to  reconstruct  his  philosophy. 
What  was  he  next  to  do?    He  walked  down 
Shaftesbury  Avenue  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  heedless  of  the  passers-by. 
[147] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

High  clamor  around  him  at  the  corner  of 
Windmill  Street  brought  him  back  to  earth, 
to  find  a  horse 's  head  nuzzling  at  his  left  ear, 
its  sprawling  forehoofs  close  to  his  feet.  The 
cabman  was  leaning  over  from  his  seat,  drag- 
ging at  the  reins,  and  whistling  himself  into 
a  state  of  apoplexy.  He  stepped  back,  and 
the  cab  drove  on,  the  raging  driver  flinging 
a  curse  at  him  as  he  passed.  Laurence  re- 
plied with  a  jibe  that  brought  the  man  round 
in  his  seat  with  a  jump,  his  face  one  red 
picture  of  astonishment,  and  then,  feeling 
soothed,  passed  behind  the  wheels  with  all  the 
honors  of  war. 

No  man  could  think  here,  in  this  noise  and 
traffic.  He  would  go  home,  and  smoke — and 
think  things  over.  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
Nearly  three,  and  he  had  an  appointment 
with  the  Lady  of  the  Shoe  at  half-past. 
Never  mind  her.  She  could  wait  an  hour. 
He  would  go  home  to  New  Cavendish  Street 
and  think  things  over — make  up  his  mind  as 
to  what  he  should  do  in  this  new  and  unfore- 
seen state  of  affairs. 

He  went  up  the  stairway  and  entered  his 
rooms  bemused  with  thought.  A  little  leather 
bag  lay  upon  the  table.  By  all  that  was 
lucky ! — that  must  be  hers !  He  pounced  upon 
it  like  a  hawk,  and  emptied  it  upon  the  table. 
It  contained  a  handkerchief,  a  purse,  and  a 
[148] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

memorandum  and  address  book.  He  exam- 
ined the  handkerchief  first.  It  told  him  little, 
being  but  a  little  workaday  square  of  cam- 
bric without  lace  or  other  adornment,  and 
with  the  monogram  M.  S.  or  S.  M. — he  could 
not  tell  which — embroidered  in  one  corner. 
The  memorandum  book  helped  him  no  more. 
A  few  addresses,  mostly  of  editorial  offices, 
filled  its  pages.  His  own,  under  the  name  of 
"H.  S.  Webster1,"  was  among  them.  Some 
names  of  books,  with  page  numbers,  and  that 
was  all.  "I've  got  to  have  a  look  at  your 
purse,  then,  young  lady,"  he  said,  and 
opened  it. 

Fourteen  shillings  in  silver,  some  odd  cop- 
pers, a  check  for  two  guineas,  half  a  dozen 
priced  slips  from  drapers'  shops,  and — 
happy  Fortune ! — a  card-case !  There  lay  the 
answer  to  his  unspoken  question. 

1 '  Marion  Stewart ' ' ;  and  in  the  lower*  cor- 
ner was  the  address:  "Baron's  Court  Road, 
West  Kensington."  Joy!  He  waved  the 
card-case  aloft,  exulting  silently;  then  re- 
packed the  little  bag's  belongings,  sat  down 
and  ineffectually  tried  to  smoke. 

First,  he  must  write  to  Harper  and  ask 

that  the  month  given  him  for  decision  might 

be  extended  to  six  or  even  seven  weeks.    That 

gave  him  a  clear  month  in  which  to  make  the 

[149] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

girl's  acquaintance.  Next,  he  must  cut  the 
whole  of  the  set  he  had  been  with  for  the 
last  three  weeks.  He  would  quarrel  with  the 
fair  Constance — whose  name  so  belied  her 
fame — that  very  afternoon.  Next,  how  much 
money  had  he  got  ?  He  fetched  his  bank-  and 
check-books,  adding  up  the  sums  on  the 
counter-foils  of  the  latter  to  subtract  from 
the  last  balance  shown  in  his  favor. 

''Thirty-five  quid!  Um.  Cheering!"  he 
said,  and  emptied  his  pockets  on  the  table. 
"And  seven's  forty- two.  A  hundred  at 
Dwyer's,  less  a  month's  rent.  Any  commis- 
sion, I  wonder?  No!  Pat '11  make  the  Web- 
ster man  pay  that.  Eighty  and  forty's  a 
hundred  and  twenty.  I'll  get  back  to  Leith 
with  most  of  the  hundred  in  my  pocket. 
That's  something  towards  setting  up  house, 
anyway. 

"Oh!  what  a  perishing  fool  I  have  been. 
Will  she  have  me?  She's  got  to — the  little 
brown  darling.  I'll  make  her,  by  gad!"  He 
stood  up  and  stretched  himself,  delighting  in 
his  strength.  "I  could  pick  her  up  in  one 
hand — I'll  do  it  yet,  just  to  show  her.  And 
now  to  write  Clement  Harper,  and  then  to 
take  tea  with  Constance  the  inconstant.  'It's 
well  to  be  off  with  the  old  love  before  you 
are  on  with  the  new.'  " 

He  locked  the  little  handbag  away  in  his 
[150] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

bedroom.  In  the  drawer  in  which  he  placed 
it  lay  the  fragment  of  stone  he  had  declared 
should  act  as  death's  head  at  his  feast,  for- 
gotten this  last  fortnight.  "I'll  take  it  with 
me  now,"  he  said  to  himself.  "It'll  remind 
me  of  what's  taken  its  place  in  the  drawer — 
if  I  want  reminding. ' ' 

He  wrote  to  Harper,  asking  him  to  wire 
reply,  and  went  downstairs,  slamming  his 
door  behind  him.  "That  young  lady  who 
called  this  morning  left  her  purse  behind, 
Ferguson, ' '  he  told  the  hall  porter.  ' '  If  she 
calls,  ask  her  to  leave  her  address,  and  I'll 
return  it." 

"Yes,  sir.  Are  you  expecting  her  to  call, 
sir?" 

"No.  I  don't  know,  though;  she  might." 
He  reflected  rapidly  that  in  all  probability 
she  would  call  when  her  afternoon 's  work  was 
done.  "Here's  my  key.  If  she  comes,  show 
her  in  and  ask  her  to  wait.  Mrs.  Ferguson 
can  make  her  a  cup  of  tea.  I  shall  be  back 
about  six."  He  went  oif  to  post  his  letter 
and  make  his  adieux  to  his  discarded  fair. 

But  it  is  one  thing  to  resolve  to  discard  a 
woman  and  very  much  another  thing  to  find 
the  parting  seriously  discommoded  by  the 
presence  of  a  third  person.  Moreover,  if 
one  is  possessed  by  the  firm  idea  that  that 
third  person  only  waits  to  step  into  one 's  own 
[151] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

shoes,  there  is  a  tendency  to  delay  the  part- 
ing awhile.  A  Final  Parting,  to  the  male 
mind,  should  be  a  ceremony  decently  attended 
by  regrets,  even  by  tears — at  least  on  the 
part  of  the  deserted  maiden;  and  it  is  an 
intensely  irritating  perversion  of  this  order 
of  things  to  find  that,  despite  some  polite 
expressions  of  sorrow,  the  said  deserted 
maiden,  so  far  from  bursting  into  tears  and 
clinging  despondency,  shows  a  disagreeable 
readiness  to  part  good  friends  and  to  turn 
the  light  of  her  smiles  on  another  man  who, 
again,  appears  perfectly  prepared  to  act  as 
a  willing  substitute. 

He  found  his  Constance  at  tea  with  an- 
other admirer,  a  youth  who  held  some  ob- 
scure position  in  the  Geological  Survey. 
Laurence  glowered  at  him  sulkily,  scarcely 
vouchsafing  a  word  at  their  introduction. 

"And  now  for  tea,  Mr.  Bear,"  said  the 
lady  cheerfully.  "You  won't  take  sugar,  of 
course." 

"Always  do,"  Laurence  growled.  "Why 
not  now?" 

"You  look  quite  too  perfectly  sweet  with- 
out it,"  was  the  reply,  at  which  the  hated 
rival  laughed  maliciously. 

"And  have  you  found  my  shoe?"  she 
asked,  a  little  nervously,  to  change  the  con- 
versation. Not  for  nothing  had  she  known 
[152] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

and  borne  with  Laurence's  furious  temper 
during  the  last  three  weeks. 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"If  it's  where  I  left  it,  it's  in  my  fire- 
place," Laurence  said  coarsely.  "That's 
where  I  chucked  it  when  I  found  it." 

"Very  thoughtful  of  you,  I'm  sure.  And 
what  are  you  going  to  give  me  to  replace 
it?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Laurence  the  brute. 
"You  shouldn't  leave  your  things  about." 

"I  won't — in  your  rooms,"  the  lady  re- 
plied with  meaning,  and  turned  her  conversa- 
tion to  the  other  man,  thanking  him  gently 
for  some  present  he  had  made  her  that  after- 
noon before  Laurence's  arrival.  For  his 
greater  chastening  it  was  produced,  and  she 
held  it  up  before  him,  inviting  admiration. 

It  was  a  little  pendant  of  good  modern 
design,  gold,  set  with  a  matrix  turquoise  and 
hanging  opals.  She  dangled  it  before  his 
nose  and  he  leaned  back  to  avoid  it,  pushing 
his  thumbs  into  his  waistcoat  pockets  as  he 
did  so.  One  of  them  came  in  contact  with 
his  fragment  of  Iceland  stone,  and  he  pulled 
it  out  and  threw  it  on  the  little  tea-tray, 
greatly  endangering  the  fragile  china. 

"I  wouldn't  give  that  stone  for  all  the 
turquoises  ever  dug,"  he  said — and  was  im- 
[153] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

mediately  ashamed  at  heart  for  the  sentiment 
underlying  his  words.  To  think  of  Her  mem- 
ory in  this  place ! 

The  young  geologist  picked  it  up,  glanced 
at  it,  and  replaced  it. 

"I  wouldn't  give  much  for  your  knowl- 
edge of  stones,  then,"  he  said  superciliously. 
"If  you  could  trade  malachite  for  turquoise, 
weight  for  weight,  you  'd  make  money. ' ' 

"Trade  how  much!"  asked  Laurence. 
"What  do  you  call  it?" 

' '  That  stone  of  yours  ?    Malachite. '  ' 

"What's  it  worth?" 

"I  really  couldn't  tell  you.  I'm  not  a 
Brummagem  jeweler;" 

Laurence  sat  upright  in  his  chair.  "What 
— the — deuce,"  he  said,  "has  that  stone  got 
to  do  with  Brummagem  jewelry?" 

"That's  all  it's  fit  for.  You  seem  to  have 
an  exaggerated  idea  of  its  value." 

"Perhaps  so.    What's  it  worth  a  ton?" 

"A  ton,  eh?"  He  laughed.  "You  don't 
buy  malachite  by  the  ton,  my  dear  sir.  Might 
as  well  buy  precious  stones — really  precious 
ones,  I  mean — by  the  pound  instead  of  the 
carat. ' ' 

"Look  here" — Laurence  began  to  get  ex- 
cited— "what  is  malachite,  anyway?" 

The  young  man  entered  into  a  learned  dis- 
quisition on  copper  ores  and  their  deposits 
[154] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

— "Something  after  the  manner  in  which 
stalagmites  are  formed,"  he  concluded, 
emerging  from  a  mist  of  technical  terms. 

Laurence  looked  at  the  woman  sitting 
gracefully  between  them.  Her  face,  turned 
towards  the  speaker,  showed  polite  meaning- 
less interest,  but  he  could  see  that  every  word 
had  passed  unheeded. 

' '  Is  the  stuff  of  any  real  value  ? "  he  asked. 

"In  large  slabs— yes.  The  Emperor  of 
Eussia,  I  believe,  presented  a  pair  of  doors 
to  the  late  Queen  that  were  considered  price- 
less. In  small  pieces  like  that — no,  not  much. 
As  I  tell  you,  it's  very  largely  used  for  cheap 
jewelry,  being  of  a  fine  green  color  with 
variegated  surface.  It  polishes  well,  too. 
I  can't  tell  you  what  it's  worth.  You  must 
ask  a  practical  jeweler." 

Laurence  had  made  his  adieux,  with  some 
incoherent  promise  to  meet  the  pair  at  dinner 
that  evening,  had  taken  the  staircase  three 
steps  at  a  time,  and  hailed  a  cab  in  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  within  three  minutes  of  the 
youth's  last  words. 

"Bond  Street,"  he  said  excitedly.  "No: 
first  jeweler's  you  come  to.  Drive  like 
mad!" 

The  cab  drew  up  only  a  short  way  past  the 
Tube  station,  and  Laurence  was  across  the 
pavement  and  into  the  shop  almost  before  it 
[155] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

had  stopped.  He  placed  his  precious  pos- 
session on  the  counter. 

' 'What's  that  worth?"  he  demanded. 

The  assistant  picked  it  up  and  looked  at 

it  curiously.  "It's — it's ?"  he  said,  and 

looked  at  Laurence  for  information. 

"Malachite,  man!  Malachite.  I  don't 
want  you  to  tell  me  what  it  is,  but  what  it's 
worth — by  the  pound,  say." 

The  assistant  really  could  not  say.  He 
would  call  the  proprietor.  Would  Laurence 
have  the  goodness  to  take  a  seat? 

No,  he  wouldn't.  He  preferred  to  pace  the 
floor,  to  and  fro,  his  brain  spinning  in  the 
endeavor  to  see  how  far  this  had  bearing  on 
his  new  plans.  One  thing  was  certain — the 
jewelry  suggested  it.  He  would  cover  Marion 
— yes,  Marion — the  prospective  owner  of 
malachite  mines,  or  quarries,  or  whatever 
they  were,  could  call  any  woman  by  her 
Christian  name — he  would  cover  Marion  with 
jewels,  he  promised  himself.  The  little  hands 
should  be  weighted  down  with  their  flashing 
burden;  tiaras  of  great  price  should  lie  on 
the  cloudy  hair,  even  though  all  of  them  must 
dim  with  shame  for  their  dullness  when- 
ever her  eyes  laughed  or  grew  moist  with 
tears. 

His  castles  in  the  air  were  rudely  shaken 
at  the  fussy  entrance  of  the  proprietor,  an- 
[156] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

noyed  at  being  disturbed  from  his  afternoon 
of  quiet. 

"Malachite,  sir!"  he  fumed.  "This  is  a 
jeweler's  establishment,  sir — not  a  lapi- 
dary's. If  you  want  to  ascertain  the  value  of 
such  rubbish  as  that  you  had  better  go  to  a 
stone-mason,  sir.  Malachite,  indeed!  Good- 
afternoon."  He  retreated  furiously,  and 
Laurence,  somewhat  subdued,  sought  his 
cab. 

"This  is  not  the  class  of  crib  I  want,"  he 
told  the  driver.  "I  want  a  little  cheap  jew- 
eler's and  watch  repairer's,  where  they  sell 
Brummagem  goods.  And  if  it's  kept  by  a 
Jew,  so  much  the  better.  He  won't  exag- 
gerate values  if  he  thinks  I  want  to  sell,"  he 
added  to  himself. 

The  chauffeur  reflected  a  moment.  ' '  Right 
0,  sir ! "  he  said.  ' '  I  fancy  I  know  the  clawss 
o '  plyce  you  mean.  Jump  in,  sir. ' ' 

He  drove  up  Tottenham  Court  Road,  turn- 
ing to  the  left  this  time,  and  halting  before 
just  such  a  shop  as  Laurence  had  demanded. 
A  score  of  shabby  silver  watches  hung 
in  its  low-browed  front,  and  the  shelving 
slope  beneath  them  was  sparsely  covered 
with  little  ornaments  of  the  same  metal, 
mostly  cross-shaped  brooches,  with  an  occa- 
sional crucifix  or  two  here  and  there  among 
them. 

[157] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

Laurence  entered.  "Do  you  buy  mala- 
chite?" he  asked  of  a  man  seated  behind  the 
counter. 

The  shopman  removed  a  watchmaker's 
glass  from  his  eye  and  stood  up  carefully, 
gathering  together  the  corners  of  his  leather 
apron  with  one  hand  as  he  did  so.  He  turned 
one  ear  towards  Laurence. 

1  'Eh?  What  sye?"  he  asked,  with  the 
purest  Cockney  accent. 

1 '  Do — you — buy — malachite  ? ' '  Laurence 
almost  shouted. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  much  nowadays. 
There  ain't  no  demand  for  it  in  the  south. 
They  sell  more  north — in  the  manufacturin' 
districks." 

"What's  its  value?" 

"I  'ardly  know — 'olesyle.  In  the  old  dyes, 
when  it  was  all  Eussian  malachite  an'  fash- 
'nable,  it  used  to  be  worth  five-an '-twenty 
bob  a  pahnd.  Nah  they  get  it  from  Austry- 
lier — and  the  price  is  gone  dahn  'orrible.  I 
wouldn't  give  yer  more'n  five  shillin's  a 
pahnd  for  it.  'Ow  much  'ave  yer  got  ter 
sell?" 

Laurence  extracted  the  fragment  from  his 
pocket  and  handed  it  over  the  counter. 

"This  all?"  He  threw  it  into  a  scales, 
where  it  just  turned  the  quarter  pound. 
"Give  yer  a  tanner  for  it.  Yer  see,  it'll  lose 
[158] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

'arf  its  weight  in  cuttin'  and  polishin' — an' 
there  ain't  but  little  demand " 

"I  wouldn't  sell  it  for  twenty  pounds," 
Laurence  cried. 

"Then  yer  must  be  balmy,"  the  man  said 
calmly,  sitting  down  and  resuming  his  glass. 
"I  don't  mind  springin'  tuppence  more, 
but " 

His  voice  died  away  into  an  incoherent 
whine  behind  Laurence's  fleeing  footsteps. 
He  almost  danced  across  the  pavement  to  his 
cab. 

"My  man,"  he  said,  "this  is  an  occasion. 
You  drive  me  where  I  can  get  a  great,  long, 
beautiful  drink.  And  you're  to  have  one 
too.  Forty,  if  you  like." 

The  man  grinned.  "  If  I  like,  sir !  Wotto ! 
But  'oo '11  look  after  my  keb!" 

"Never  mind  the  cab.  I'll  buy  it.  Hurry 
up  and  drive  me  where  I  can  get  a  decent 
drink.  That's  your  job.  Skip." 

He  drank  a  whisky  and  soda  at  a  gulp  and 
sent  another  out  to  the  chauffeur,  bidding 
him  wait.  On  the  back  of  an  envelope  he 
made  a  few  rough  calculations  in  pencil,  and 
then  ordered  another  drink  while  he  checked 
his  figures. 

"Five  bob  a  pound— call  it  four.  Four 
bob  a  pound  is  a  hundred  and  twelve  times 
four  bob  for  a  hundredweight.  P'r'aps  it's 
[159] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

Troy,  though.  A  hundred  times  four  bob — 
that's  twenty  quid.  Twenty  times  twenty 
quid  is  four  hundred.  Saints  above  us  I 
Four  hundred  quid  a  ton!  Why  didn't  I  live 
in  the  happy  days  before  Australian  goods 
spoiled  the  market — when  it  was  twenty-five 
bob  a  pound?  Never  mind :  enough's  as  good 
as  a  feast.  Four  hundred  quid  a  ton,  less 
expenses  of  quarrying  and  freight.  Call  it 
three  hundred  quid,  just  for  fun.  And  per- 
haps this  chap  was  bluffing.  He  sprung  two- 
pence more  on  his  sixpence  when  I  wouldn't 
sell,  bless  his  heart.  Here's  to  him.  I  must 
have  one  more  drink  while  I  make  sure  I'm 
not  making  a  fool's  paradise  for  myself.  Oh 
ho!  and  not  two  hours  ago  I  wrote  Clement 
Harper  to  keep  my  place  in  the  office  open 
for  a  fortnight  longer.  I'll  wire  him  to  go 
to  Blazes.  No,  I  won 't,  though.  If  he  hadn't 
sold  this  ground  to  my  father,  p'r'aps  I 
should  never  have  gone  to  Uthlid — never 
have  kicked  off  this  precious  souvenir  of  woe. 
Besides,  I  should  never  have  got  to  sea  at 
all. 

"How  am  I  to  get  hold  of  those  shares? 
Don't  suppose  they're  worth  a  cent,  market 
price  now.  I  must  go  slow — devilish  slow. 
Mighty  gay  job  for  me  if  anybody  smells  a 
rat.  And  there'll  be  guinea-pig  shares,  too. 
Bought  at  a  quid  and  chucked  into  the  waste- 
[160] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

paper  basket,  most  likely.  But  I'll  get  them 
easily  enough.  Rich  son  of  bankrupt  father 
desires  to  make  amends.  The  thieves! 
They'll  grin,  I  bet.  But  they'll  grin  the 
wrong  side  of  their  mouths,  when  My  dyna- 
mite has  blown  My  lava  to  glory,  and  My 
winches  are  hoisting  My  malachite  out  on 
the  quayside.  My  quayside  too,  perhaps, 
after  a  bit.  And  My  Marion  shall  wear  this 
My  precious  sample  in  the  middle  of  a  dia- 
mond tarara,  as  big  as  the  Marble  Arch. 
.  .  .  That  rotten  whisky's  laying  hold  of  me. 
I'll  go  home  and  dress  for  dinner  and  wire 
Pat  to  come.  I  shall  be  able  to  ask  him  ques- 
tions about  the  shareholders.  Must  be  care- 
ful, though.  It  won't  do  to  give  the  show 
away,  even  to  him." 

He  sent  the  wire,  but  on  the  way  home  an 
awful  fear  laid  hold  on  him.  Supposing  the 
vein  or  lode,  or  whatever  the  deposit  ought 
to  be  called,  were  only  a  tiny  patch !  But  the 
memory  of  the  tumbled  heap  of  fragments 
beneath  Uthlid  rock  somewhat  reassured  him. 
There  must  be  more  below.  A  surface  de- 
posit would  have  crumbled  into  thinner 
pieces.  He  wished  he  had  asked  the  geol- 
ogist for  his  explanation  all  over  again.  He 
remembered  something  about  "copper  sul- 
phates." That  must  mean  a  combination  of 
copper  and  sulphur.  Sulphur  1  What  was  it 
[161] 


LAURENCE        A  V  E  R  I  L 

Harper  had  said  at  the  inquiry  two  years 
ago?  ''Sulphur.  Not  a  speck."  Well — he 
was  wrong,  then.  Where  there  were  sul- 
phates there  must  be  sulphur  to  make  'em. 
But  that  was  a  geologist 's  affair,  anyway. 

And  even  though  the  deposit  should  prove 
small,  surely  there  might  be  a  deal  to  be  done 
in  the  shares,  somehow.  Worthless  paper 
ought  to  jump  to  some  sort  of  a  price  on  the 
evidence  he  had  before  him.  If  he  could 
corner  the  lot  at  a  low  price,  and  then  go 
and  have  a  look  at  the  stuff  with  some  prac- 
tical man,  whether  it  turned  out  well  or  no 
he  surely  could  get  the  shares  off  his  hands 
with  profit.  ''Even  if  I  have  to  salt  the 
claim,"  he  said  to  himself. 

On  reaching  home  he  gave  the  chauffeur 
half  a  sovereign,  and  ascended  the  stairs. 
His  heart  leaped  at  the  sight  of  his  open  door ; 
and  he  ran  in  to  find  his  luncheon  guest 
seated  by  the  open  window,  a  table  covered 
with  empty  tea-things  standing  beside  her. 


[162] 


CHAPTER  XIII 


SHE  rose  as  he  entered,  a  friendly  smile  upon 
her  face. 

"You're  more  than  punctual,"  she  said. 
"The  porter  told  me  you'd  be  back  by  six, 
but  it  wants  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  that 
yet." 

Though  wisdom  warned  him  to  put  a 
guard  upon  his  feet  and  his  tongue,  the  ex- 
citement of  the  afternoon  and  the  drinks  he 
had  so  speedily  absorbed  betrayed  him.  His 
eyes  were  bright  and  his  step  light  and  care- 
less as  he  came  to  the  window.  He  took  her 
hand  and  bent  over  her  closely — too  closely. 

"I — I've  had  great  news,"  he  said. 
"Glorious  news — a  great  stroke  of  luck!" 
and  looked  in  her  face  for  an  answering 
smile. 

She  hardened  into  dignity  at  once.  "I'm 
glad  to  hear  it.  And  now,  will  you  please  let 
me  have  my  purse  1  I  am  in  a  hurry. ' ' 

He  saw  his  mistake;  and,  fatal  error! 
made  a  bad  matter  worse  by  remonstrating. 

"But  you  can't  be.  Stay  here  awhile. 
You  can't  imagine  how  good  it  is  to  see  you 

having  tea  in  these  rooms — and  besides " 

[163] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

"Will  you  kindly  let  me  have  my  purse!" 
Her  face  was  impassive  as  a  statue's. 

"Yes — of  course.  In  a  minute;  it's  only 
in  the  next  room.  But  do  sit  down.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  I " 

"My  purse."  Laurence  himself  could 
have  given  the  order  with  no  more  of  curt 
authority. 

"But " 

"Will  you  get  my  purse,  or  shall  I  call  the 
hall  porter?"  she  demanded,  flushed  with 
anger,  stamping  her  little  foot. 

Laurence  turned  and  walked  to  the  door. 
Perfectly  sober  as  he  was,  he  knew  the  girl's 
eyes  were  upon  him,  and  solely  because  he 
took  care  for  every  footstep  he  lurched  as 
he  passed  the  table.  When  he  reached  the 
bedroom  he  was  in  a  state  bordering  on 
frenzy.  Taking  the  bag  from  the  drawer  in 
which  he  had  left  it,  he  returned  to  the  liv- 
ing room,  placing  it  upon  the  table  and  cross- 
ing the  room  to  the  fireplace. 

"There's  your  purse,"  he  said;  and  the 
deadly  distinctness  of  his  words  only  con- 
firmed the  girl's  suspicions,  so  careful  was 
he  to  avoid  the  slightest  slip.  "There's  your 
purse,  and  there 's  the  door,  and  here  am  I — 
on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  If  you  wish, 
you  can  pick  it  up  and  walk  straight  down 
the  stairs.  Nobody '11  interfere  with  you. 
[164] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"But  I  beg  of  you  to  stay  where  you  are 
and  hear  me  out.  My — my  circumstances 
have  changed  entirely  since  I  saw  you  at 
midday.  And  as  they  concern — as  I  hope 
they  may  concern  you  a  little — I  want  you 
to  hear  what  I  have  to  say.  It's — it's  your 
business  as  well  as  my  own — at  least,  I  want 
to  make  it  so." 

She  took  a  watch  from  her  belt.  '  *  Provid- 
ing you  stand  just  where  you  are,  I'll  give 
you  three  minutes  to  tell  your  tale, ' '  she  said 
coldly. 

"It  may  take  more  than  three  minutes,  but 
I'll  promise  to  stay  where  I  am";  and  he 
looked  at  her  appealingly. 

"Go  on,"  she  said.  "You've  lost  a  quar- 
ter of  a  minute  already." 

Laurence  laughed  uneasily.  "Very  well, 
then.  Here  goes.  Tell  me  if  anything  isn't 
clear. 

"I  told  you  I'd  been  in  the  North  Sea 
fishery.  That's  true — nearly  two  years  of  it, 
worse  luck.  Last  April  my  employer  told 
me  he  intended  to  remove  me  from  the  fleet 
and  put  me  into  the  office.  I  said  I  wouldn't 
go  there — that  I  preferred  the  fleet.  It's — 
it's  a  wretched  life — a  blackguardly  life, — 
but  it  seemed  to  me  better  than  making  any 
change.  I  had  got  into  the  groove  and  meant 
to  stay  there,  you  see. 
[165] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

"But  he  gave  me  no  choice.  He  said  I 
was  growing  into  a  blackguard  and  a  brute — 
which  was  true — and  that  whether  I  went  into 
the  office  or  not  he  would  discharge  me  from 
the  trawler  I  was  on.  He  would  keep  a  place 
open  in  the  office  for  me  for  a  month — if  I 
didn't  choose  to  take  it,  then  I  could  shift 
for  myself.  My  father  was  a  friend  of  his, 
and  he  said  he'd  let  me  go  to  the  bad  no 
longer. 

"I  had  some  money  saved — about  three 
hundred  pounds — and  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  spend  it  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  go  back 
to  him  broke  to  the  world.  If  he  couldn't 
let  me  go  to  the  bad  on  the  boats  he  couldn't 
very  well  let  me  go  there  ashore,  and  I  reck- 
oned he'd  give  in  and  let  me  go  back  to  the 
fleet  if  I  showed  him  plainly  that  I  hadn't 
any  money  and  wouldn't  work  ashore.  Do 
you  follow  me  I" 

The  girl  nodded,  and  glanced  at  the  watch 
lying  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand.  "Half  of 
the  three  minutes  is  gone,"  she  said  without 
emotion. 

"So  I  came  here  and  played  the  fool  and 
spent  the  money — the  best  part  of  it,  at  all 
events.  And  only  this  morning  I  was  think- 
ing how  sick  I  was  of  it  all  when  you  came 
into  the  room.  Then  we  had  lunch  together ; 
and  when  I  came  back  I  wrote  Harper — 
[166] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

that's  my  late  employer — to  keep  the  place 
open  in  the  office  for  another  month." 

He  paused,  and  she  glanced  at  the  watch 
again.  "Well!"  she  said.  Her  tone  was 
devoid  of  the  slightest  interest. 

"Well — that  was  because But  there's 

more  before  I  come  to  that. 

"This  afternoon  I've  had  good  news.  I'm 
rich,  I  believe.  It  may  be  just  a  few  hun- 
dreds, or  it  may  be  thousands  and  thousands 
of  pounds." 

"A  legacy?"  Only  a  shadow  of  polite  in- 
quiry was  in  her  voice — no  trace  of  interest 
or  curiosity. 

"Yes.  A — a  legacy — of  a  sort.  I  haven't 
any  particulars.  Don't  know  in  the  least 
what  it's  worth.  But  anyhow  there's 
the  billet  in  Harper's  office — that's  a 
cert." 

"I'm  glad  you've  decided  to  accept  it," 
she  said  gravely.  "It  seems  a  pity  for  a 
man  to  go  to  the  bad.  And  I'm  glad  to  hear 
of  your  legacy.  I  hope  it  may  turn  out  to 
be  a  good  one.  And  now,  will  you  kindly 
tell  me  where  this  rigmarole  concerns  met" 
She  returned  the  watch  to  her  belt  and 
glanced  at  the  purse  on  the  table. 

Laurence  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair, 
stammering  like  a  schoolboy. 

"I— I  asked  Harper  to  give  me  the  extra 

[167] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

month   because — because    I   wanted    oppor- 
tunity to  make  your  acquaintance." 

"And  why?"  Her  manner  was  perfectly 
composed  and  the  little  head  was  poised  erect 
in  slight  scorn. 

' '  I — I Oh,  d n  it !   I  want  to  marry 

you,"  he  said. 

She  picked  up  her  purse  and  looked  at  him 
steadily. 

* '  I  have  already  made  as  much  of  your  ac- 
quaintance as  I  desire,"  she  said,  very 
calmly.  ' '  You  led  off  by  insulting  me  in  the 
street — a  good  beginning.  You  atoned  for 
that — or  I  condoned  it — when  we  lunched  to- 
gether. On  the  same  day  you  take  advantage 
of  my  carelessness  in  leaving  my  purse  in 
your  rooms  to  insult  me  again.  I  won't  tell 
you  what  I  think  of  you — indeed,  I'm  at  a 
loss  for  words.  'Blackguard  and  brute,'  you 
said  your  late  employer  called  you.  He 
chooses  his  language  better  than  his  servants. 

"I  had  no  right  to  lunch  with  you — fool 
that  I  was.  But  I've  done  nothing  to  de- 
serve this  drunken  insult.  If  you  ever  had 
womenkind  of  your  own,  I  hope  when  you 
are  sober  you  will  reflect  what  this  has  meant 
for  me.  Good-afternoon." 

She  turned  to  the  door,  but  Laurence,  mad- 
dened, was  across  the  room  in  two  strides 
and  had  her  by  the  wrist. 
[168] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"You — you  shan't  go  like  this,"  he  cried. 
"I  tell  you  I — I  know  your  address,  and  I 
will  see  you  again." 

She  looked  up  fearlessly,  but  her  eyes 
dropped  at  the  blaze  in  his  own. 

"How  did  you  find  that  out!"  she 
asked. 

He  released  her.  Knowing  he  was  forfeit- 
ing the  last  faint  claim  to  her  favor,  he  yet 
told  the  truth. 

"I  opened  your  purse,"  he  admitted. 

"Ah!"  She  looked  him  up  and  down 
coldly  and  disdainfully,  and  turning  to  the 
table,  emptied  bag  and  purse  on  to  the  cloth, 
counting  her  poor  change  before  his  eyes. 
'Thirteen — fourteen  and  nine.  Thank  you," 
she  said.  "I'm  glad  to  find  you  stop  at 
petty  theft." 

Though  raging  at  the  imputation,  Lau- 
rence noticed  that  her  hand  was  steady  as  she 
swept  back  the  coins  into  the  bag,  and  ad- 
miration of  her  courage  rushed  over  him  like 
a  wave.  She  curtseyed  to  him  before  reach- 
ing her  hand  to  the  door. 

"Or — perhaps  you  were  afraid,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  sneer.  ' '  Taking  money  is  a  mat- 
ter for  the  police,  you  see.  Insulting  a 
woman  isn't." 

Furious  anger — and  something  else;  the 
light  movements  of  her  graceful  figure,  the 
[169] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 


curve  of  her  cheek  and  neck  as   she  had 
stooped  over  the  table — drove  him  mad  for 

the  moment.  As 
quick  as  lightning  he 
had  her  again  by  the 
shoulder.  "This  is  a 
punishable  offense, ' ' 
he  cried,  choking,  and 
kissed  her  fair  upon 
the  lips.  "And  now 
prosecute  me.  I 
shan't  deny  it." 

Struggling,  she 
struck  him  twice  sav- 
agely upon  the  mouth 
with  her  little 
clenched  hand ;  and 
then  her  body,  obedi- 
ent to  his  hold,  yield- 
ed to  his  strong  arm 
and  was  drawn  closer 
to  his  breast. 
' '  Oh,  coward — coward ! ' '  she  wailed  softly. 
"And  I  alone.  Oh!  is  there  no  man  in  you? 
— I  thought  you  were  a  man."  Her  head 
was  bowed  and  she  was  crying  to  herself  in 
little  lengthened  sobs. 

He  placed  her  in  a  chair  and  returned  to 
the  mantelpiece,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the 
shelf,  his  head  between  his  hands.    All  his 
[170] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

anger  had  given  place  to  black  shame — to 
despair.  Fool — fool  and  beast!  How  could 
he  ever  hope  to  make  amends  for  this? 

The  girl  was  the  first  to  recover  herself. 

She  sat  upright  and  wiped  her  eyes  before 
rising  to  her  feet.  Then — 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I  had  no  right 
to  insult  you  about  the  money  as  I  did"; 
and  without  another  word  she  was  gone. 

Laurence  took  a  step  towards  the  closing 
door,  but,  on  swift  reflection,  stayed  himself. 
He  could  do  nothing  further  now  that  would 
help  him,  for  certain;  and  as  the  memory  of 
the  whole  unlucky  interview  returned  to  tor- 
ture him  he  cursed  his  ill-luck — his  folly— 
aloud. 

Not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  he  had 
come  up  the  staircase  full  of  joy  and  hope, 
and  in  that  quarter  of  an  hour  had  wrecked 
his  own  plans  as  fully  and  completely  as 
though  he  had  come  there  for  the  purpose. 
True,  he  knew  her  name  and  address,  but 
what  chance  had  he  of  ever  getting  on  good 
terms — on  even  bare  terms  of  acquaintance 
— with  her  again?  He  thought  of  their 
friendly  parting  at  Rupert  Street  in  the 
morning,  and  the  memory  moved  him  to  more 
smothered  blasphemy. 

He  raged  ineffectually  up  and  down  the 

F171] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

room,  until  the  clock,  striking  seven,  re- 
minded him  that  though  he  had  very  success- 
fully pulled  his  castle  in  Spain  about  his 
ears,  he  yet  had  an  appointment  with  Dwyer 
at  dinner.  He  dressed  hastily  and  hurried 
off,  his  face  calm  enough,  but  his  mind  in  a 
tumult  of  rage  and  despair. 

Dwyer  soon  remarked  upon  it.  *  *  Cheerful 
bird  you  are  to-night,"  he  said.  "What's 
wrong?  Connie  given  you  the  go-by?  I  no- 
tice young  Farrant's  been  pretty  much  in 
evidence  lately." 

Laurence  briefly  consigned  young  Farrant 
and  his  inamorata  to  unspeakable  depths. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  believe  I  promised 
to  dine  with  the  pair  of  'em  to-night,"  he 
concluded.  "Forget  where,  though." 

"And  so  you  wired  to  me — as  a  pis  alter, 
eh?  Complimentary,  I'm  sure." 

"Don't  drivel,"  Laurence  interrupted. 
"I  wanted  to  see  you — on  business,  in  a  way. 
I  want  to  buy  some  shares,  Pat ;  and  I  haven't 
much  money  to  spare,  and  I  want  it  done 
on  the  quiet — dead  quiet,  see?" 

Dwyer  nodded.  "Not  much  money  to 
spare,  eh?"  he  remarked.  "What  about  that 
pile  you  were  retiring  with?" 

"My  pile — all  that's  left  of  it — amounts 
to  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  quid,  of  which 
you've  eighty  in  your  care." 
[172] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"A  hundred,"  Dwyer  corrected  him. 

"Less  twenty  for  a  month's  rent.  I  shall 
leave  the  flat  next  week.  And  I've  about 
forty  quid  besides.  When  I  came  to  town 
my  'pile'  amounted  to  about  three-fifty,  and 
I've  blued  more  than  half  of  it.  I  meant  to 
get  rid  of  the  lot  in  evil  living,  but  now  I've 
changed  my  mind,  and  I'm  going  to  devote 
the  rest  to  good  works." 

"Go  on.    Expound." 

"Do  you  remember  a  very  shady  bit  of 
work  of  my  father's — doing  an  old  Somerset 
sea-captain  out  of  his  savings  with  a  bogus 
sulphur-mining  scheme ! '  * 

"In  Iceland,  was  it?  I  fancy  I  do  remem- 
ber something  of  it." 

"Any  idea  what  shares  were  sold?" 

Dwyer  shook  his  head.  "Only  debentures, 
I  believe.  Nobody 'd  be  fool  enough  to  look 
at  ordinaries  in  a  wild-cat  scheme  like  that. 
Six  per  cent,  debentures  they  were,  I  remem- 
ber. That  ought  to  have  opened  the  guileless 
sailor-man's  eyes." 

"There  must  have  been  a  few  guinea-pig 
shares,  I  suppose?" 

"Of  course.  I  can  easily  find  out  all  about 
that,  if  you  want  to  know." 

"I  do.  And  I  want  to  buy  'em.  You  know 
how  I  stand  now,  but  your  tale  had  better 
be  that  I've  come  into  a  pile,  and  being  honest 
[173] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

— you  needn't   grin,   fool — being  honest,   I 
want  to  pay  off  some  of  my  father's  liabilities. 

"And  I  want  the  debentures  too — every 
scrap  of  shares  in  the  Company.  Can  you^ 
manage  it  on  a  hundred  and  twenty  quid?" 

"Lord  knows.  Of  course  the  stuff's  worth 
nothing  now.  I  remember  your  father's  pal 
Harper  went  into  the  box  and  described  the 
ground.  But  inquiries  mean  a  jump  in  price 
immediately.  Supposing  I  can't  rope  it  all 
in  for  the  sum  you  name?" 

"Do  your  best.  Bemember,  ordinaries 
first,  and  as  many  debentures  as  you  can  get 
afterwards.  Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  the 
ordinary  scrip's  been  used  for  lighting  fires 
long  ago.  But  you'll  be  able  to  work  it  some- 
how. Get  the  transfers — or  what  d'you  call 
'em — made  clearly  to  me,  and  the  scrip  can 
look  after  itself." 

"All  right.    Am  I  in  this  too?" 

"That's  as  you  please.  I  tell  you  straight, 
it's  the  wickedest  gamble  I  ever  put  my 

money  in.    I  can  guarantee  that No,  I 

can't  guarantee  anything.  Only  I'm  broke, 
anyhow.  As  I've  been  going  on  I  shall  be 
on  my  uppers  in  a  fortnight,  and  it  simply 
means  that  I'm  going  to  barter  a  fortnight's 
spree — and  I'm  sick  of  spree,  if  you  want  to 
know — for  the  thinnest  possible  chance  of 
something  turning  up  on  that  land." 
[174] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"Is  it  sulphur,  Laurie!"  Dwyer  asked  in- 
sinuatingly. 

"No,  it  isn't  sulphur;  and  if  you  guess  for 
&  month  of  Sundays  you'll  be  none  the  wiser, 
for  I'll  lie  even  if  you  guess  right.  You  go 
and  spend  my  hundred  and  twenty  quid  on 
as  many  shares  as  you  can  get.  If  you  can 
get  the  lot  by  a  deposit  now  and  full  payment 
in  twelve  months'  time,  do  it  that  way.  In 
twelve  months  I  shall  either  be  broke  to 
glory  or  shall  be  able  to  pay  up.  If  you've 
got  twenty  quid  lying  idle,  and  you'd  like  to 
play  ducks  and  drakes  with  it,  you  can  put 
it  in  as  well.  But  I  warn  you  beforehand 
that  I'm  staking  nothing — only  a  fortnight's 
spree  I  don't  want — and  likely  you've  better 
uses  for  your  money.  That's  all." 

"Thanks.  I  think  I'll  leave  it  alone.  Give 
me  a  week  to  ask  questions  and  find  out  what 
I  can.  This  is  Thursday.  Come  round  to 
the  office  a  week  to-day,  and  in  the  meantime 
I'll  find  out  the  guinea-pigs  and  approach 
'em  warily,  and  I'll  also  see  what  informa- 
tion is  available  about  the  debentures.  But, 
see  you — I've  eighty  quid  of  yours  in  hand. 
I  spend  no  more  than  that.  Your  ways  are 
the  least  thing  too  erratic  for  me.  What  on 
earth  prompted  you  to  come  and  chuck  away 
your  little  capital  in  this  way?" 

"I  was  sick  of  things,  Pat,  and  I  wanted  a 
[175] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

change.  That's  all.  I'll  tell  you  more  about 
it  some  day." 

11  Please  yourself.  And  now,  what  are  we 
going  to  do  1  A  theater  ? ' ' 

"Not  me.  I'm  going  home  to  be  good. 
I've  had  a  tiring  day,  and  a  late  night  last 
night — and  another  the  night  before — and 
the  night  before  that — and  so  on,  ad  in- 
finitum.  I'm  going  to  bed  to  sleep  till  Thurs- 
day. By-by." 

"Good-night,  my  virtuous  one.  Sleep 
well,"  and  the  two  men  shook  hands  and 
parted. 


[176] 


CHAPTER  XIV 


BY  ten  next  morning  Laurence  had  finished 
his  breakfast,  declined  two  invitations,  and 
burned  another  unanswered — this  last  writ- 
ten on  gray  paper  with  a  demure  white  mono- 
gram on  the  envelope  flap — and  was  on  his 
way  to  West  Kensington.  Prompted  by  a 
new  motive  of  economy,  he  traveled  by  un- 
derground, and  after  a  wait  at  Gloucester 
Road  was  delivered  at  West  Kensington  sta- 
tion just  before  eleven  o'clock.  Fate  or- 
dained that  he  should  meet  Marion  Stewart 
at  the  entrance  to  the  booking  office,  and  the 
draughty  entry  straightway  became  a  sunlit 
Fairyland. 

He  stopped  to  speak  to  her,  hat  in  hand; 
but,  deliberately  looking  through  him,  she 
passed  on  down  the  stairway  with  pink  cheeks 
and  head  erect.  Wickedly  congratulating 
himself  on  her  flushed  face,  he  followed  her 
to  the  platform,  and  there  commenced  a  lame 
apology. 

Very  quietly  and  gravely  she  heard  him 
out.  Then,  inclining  her  head,  "And  I  owe 
you  an  apology  too,"  she  said.  "I  had  no 
[177] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

right  to  behave  as  I  did.    Please  believe  I 
am  sorry — and  now,  good-by. ' ' 

"May  I  hope  to  see  you  again!"  he 
asked,  holding  out  his  hand. 

' '  I  think  not. ' '  She  altogether  disregarded 
his  outstretched  hand.  "Here  is  my  train. 
Good-morning," — and  with  a  slammed  door 
and  the  guard's  whistle  she  was  whirled 
away. 

Laurence  could  have  despaired  at  her  im- 
passive demeanor,  and  the  sunlight  on  the 
platform  turned  cold  and  gray  on  the  mo- 
ment. "But  the  game's  never  lost  till  it's 
won — by  somebody, ' '  he  said  to  himself ;  and 
lighting  a  cigarette,  he  re-ascended  the  stair- 
way, crossed  the  bridge,  and  made  his  way 
to  her  address  in  Baron's  Court  Road. 

"Have  you  any  rooms  to  let!"  he  asked 
of  the  diminutive  servant  who  answered  the 
door. 

"I'll  see,  sir.    What  nime,  please!" 

"Averil,"  mumbled  Laurence,  his  ciga- 
rette between  his  lips,  and  then,  seeing  she 
still  held  the  door  open,  threw  it  away  and 
waited  in  the  narrow  hall. 

The  landlady,  a  cleanly,  large-boned  Scots- 
woman, admitted  that  she  had  a  room  vacant 
— a  bed-sitting-room  on  the  second  floor — 
and  showed  it  to  him.  Though  plainly  fur- 
nished, he  was  glad  to  find  it  as  spotlessly 
[178] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

clean  as  the  landlady's  own  person;  and,  sur- 
prised, found  himself  none  the  less  pleased 
because  she  saw  fit  to  subject  him  to  rigid 
scrutiny,  and  even  to  a  catechism  that  in 
parts  might  have  been  deemed  impertinent. 

Such  a  severe  examination  before  permis- 
sion to  reside  beneath  the  same  roof  with  his 
lady-love  was  all  as  it  should  be.  Recogniz- 
ing the  Lowland  accent  in  the  woman's 
speech,  he  informed  her  that  he  was  from 
Leith — had  come  to  London  for  a  month's 
holiday — and  was  rewarded  for  his  candor 
by  an  immediate  access  of  friendliness  on  her 
part,  and  after  ten  minutes '  conversation  was 
accepted  as  a  lodger. 

"I  ha'  to  be  careful,  sir,  ye  see,"  she  said. 
''I  ha'  ithers  stayin'  in  the  house— a  young 
leddy  forbye." 

Laurence  found  himself  audibly  and  cor- 
dially assenting  to  her  careful  selection,  and 
promising  to  take  possession  of  the  room  on 
the  following  Monday,  he  returned  to  New 
Cavendish  Street. 

That  afternoon  he  bought  a  selection  of 
women's  papers  in  High  Street,  Marylebonc, 
and  spent  the  remainder  of  the  day  until 
dusk  turning  over  page  after  page  dealing 
with  the  mysteries  of  the  toilet  and  the 
nursery,  in  the  insane  hope  of  being  able  to 
recognize  amid  the  columns  of  nonsense  some 
[179] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

approach  to  the  bravely  independent  style  in 
which  he  conceived  Marion  Stewart  must 
write.  He  walked  to  Rupert  Street  for 
dinner,  carrying  one  of  the  periodicals  with 
him.  During  the  meal  he  glanced  at  it  from 
time  to  time,  until  the  futility  of  his  be- 
havior was  revealed  to  him,  and  he  flung  it 
under  the  table. 

"Chiffon  and  dress  patterns — titled  brats 
and  tomfoolery,"  he  growled.  "Lord!  and 
she 's  in  that — and  how  in  the  name  of  Heaven 
I'm  to  get  her  out  of  it  He  only  knows."  He 
thought  of  her  coldly  polite  bearing  at  West 
Kensington  that  morning,  and  despaired. 
'  *  If  she  only  hated  me, ' '  he  groaned  in  spirit, 
with  a  too  certain  knowledge  of  her  sex.  ' '  If 
only  she  hated  me,  I'd  stand  a  chance.  But 
now  I'm  just  beneath  her  feet — she's  as  po- 
lite to  me  as  she  would  be  to  a  flunkey — just 
the  same.  I'm  a  blackguard  yokel,  up  in 
London  for  a  drunken  spree — that's  all." 
He  walked  home  through  the  lights  and 
clamor  of  Eegent  Street  in  that  fine  state  of 
soft  melancholy  peculiar  to  despairing  lovers, 
and,  cherishing  his  cares,  had  the  benefit  of 
a  night's  sleeplessness,  for  the  first  time 
since  the  wretched  days  when  the  inquiry 
into  his  father's  affairs  was  taking  place.  He 
found  this  occasion  no  more  enviable  than 
those  had  been.  As  he  tossed  to  and  fro,  or 
[180] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

lay  still,  staring  unwinking  into  the  darkness, 
pictures  came  to  torture  him  over  and  over 
again. 

Marion,  her  hand  in  some  unknown  man's, 
her  eyes  looking  into  his  as  they  had  never 
looked  into  his  own ;  Marion,  being  kissed  by 
another  man — or  sitting,  wife,  on  another 
man's  knee.  And  then  the  knowledge  of  this 
great  hungry  city  came  on  him,  bringing  cold 
perspiration  to  his  forehead.  A  lonely 
woman — worse,  a  lonely  pretty  woman — and 
temptation  on  every  side  of  her.  Of  course, 
that  couldn't  hurt  her — he  pictured  her  calm 
eyes  as  she  rebuked  him  in  Chancery  Lane 
the  day  before — but  she  might  fall  ill, 
or  get  into  some  other  man's  hands.  Black 
shame  was  added  to  sickening  fear  as  he 
remembered  her,  struggling,  in  his  own 
arms. 

"This '11  never  do,"  he  decided  aloud,  and 
paddling  into  the  other  room  on  his  bare 
feet,  he  switched  on  the  light  to  look  for 
something  to  read.  On  the  table  lay  the  wom- 
en's papers,  and  he  took  a  bundle  of  them 
with  him  back  to  bed  for  re-reading,  reason, 
preternaturally  alert  in  the  restless  stillness 
of  the  night,  crying,  "Fool!"  at  every  step. 
He  dozed  off  to  sleep  about  five,  and  rose  in 
the  morning  haggard  and  unrested,  more 
than  half  angry  with  the  impulse  that  had 
[181] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

prompted  him  to  litter  his  bed  with  the  non- 
sensical magazines. 

All  the  morning  he  mooned  about  idly,  but 
in  the  afternoon  restlessness  and  the  fear  of 
another  wakeful  night  sent  him  to  the  river 
to  seek  comfort.  He  sailed  on  a  steamer  as 
far  down  the  Thames  as  it  would  take  him, 
returning  on  another  to  Chelsea.  The  mo- 
tion of  the  boat,  the  fresh  air,  and  sight  of 
the  mighty  ocean-going  traffic  of  the  lower 
reaches  calmed  him  somewhat,  and  he  re- 
turned to  his  rooms  and  slept  well  and 
heavily. 

On  Sunday  he  went  to  church.  Remember- 
ing a  red  brick  Gothic  erection  at  the  end  of 
Baron's  Court  Road,  he  arrayed  himself 
gorgeously  and  went  there,  cherishing  vain 
hopes.  His  landlady  passed  him  as  he  stood 
waiting  in  the  porch  after  service,  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  face  he  looked  for.  On 
the  way  home  he  reflected  that  the  landlady 
might  mention  that  she  had  seen  him  in  such 
godly  surroundings,  and  derived  some  pleas- 
ure from  the  idea  until  he  recalled  that 
Marion  did  not  as  yet  know  he  was  to  be  her 
fellow-lodger.  By  nightfall  he  was  again  in 
a  grievous  state  of  depression,  and  the  pave- 
ment of  Oxford  Street — desiring  music  and 
lights,  he  went  to  Frascati's  for  dinner — 
did  little  towards  cheering  him.  It  brought 
[182] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

back  his  first  impression  of  a  roaring  torrent 
flowing  through  the  streets — this  evening  of 
the  Day  of  Rest.  Brave  he  knew  Marion  was, 
and  fearless,  but  who  could  say  where  such 
a  straw  might  be  swept  unconsidered  in  this 
flood  of  life  ?  Evidences  of  the  broken  debris 
of  the  stream  were  plain  in  view  at  every 
step  he  took.  Accident  of  cataract  and  shoal 
everywhere  beset  the  course  of  the  current, 
and  who  was  she — though  she  was  Queen  of 
all  his  wrorld — that  she  should  be  immune 
from  accident?  And  he — the  one  that  was 
strong  enough  to  float  by  her  side,  fighting 
the  waters  for  her  sake — he  had  himself  put 
gulfs  between  them  by  his  own  cursed  folly. 

He  went  home  sweating  and  shaking,  but 
having  some  fragments  of  common-sense  still 
remaining,  reflected  that  his  fears  for  her 
could  help  her  little,  and  insured  a  good 
night's  sleep  by  bottled  beer  and  a  pipe  of 
sailor's  cake  tobacco,  a  fragment  of  which 
he  found  in  the  coat  which  he  had  worn  on 
his  arrival  in  London. 

The  next  day  he  quitted  the  flat  for  good, 
and  was  installed  amid  the  poorer  surround- 
ings of  Baron's  Court  Road.  Though  an- 
ticipating tribulation,  he  yet  embarked  upon 
his  course  methodically.  Timing  his  de- 
parture with  care,  he  was  fortunate  enough 
to  meet  her  at  the  door  as  she  left  the  house 
[183] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

in  the  morning,  and  her  face  showed  un- 
bounded astonishment. 

"I'm  lodging  with  Mrs.  Jardine,"  he  ex- 
plained, discarding  the  conventional  "Good- 
morning.  ' ' 

"You!"    Her  tone  told  nothing. 

"Yes.  You  know  how  I  got  your  address. 
Will — will  you  try  and  forget  that?  I  want 
to  see  more  of  you." 

"But  this — this  amounts  to  persecution." 

"Before  Heaven,  I  mean  no  such  thing," 
Laurence  said  earnestly.  "But  I  must  and 
will  see  more  of  you,  if  you'll  allow  me.  You 
haven't  encouraged  me,  you  know  well 
enough.  You  needn't  reproach  yourself  with 
that.  Can't  you  try  and  think  that  circum- 
stances have  been  against  me,  up  to  now?" 

"Circumstances?"  was  all  she  said. 

"Yes,  circumstances.  I  wasn't  drunk;  I 
hadn't  been  drinking — at  least,  only  a  very 
little — when  you  called  the  other  afternoon 
for  your  purse.  You  maddened  me.  .  .  . 
No:  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  start  apologiz- 
ing again  for  what  you  said.  I  richly  de- 
served it,  and  it  makes  me  hot  and  ashamed 
to  hear  you  say  you're  sorry  for  it. 

"Perhaps  I  was  responsible — of  course,  I 

know  I  was — for  the  whole  unlucky  business ; 

but  I  could  have  kicked  myself  when  you'd 

gone.    I  told  you  how  things  were — how  I'd 

[184] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

been  playing  the  fool "  He  caught  a 

glimpse  of  her  face  as  she  walked  beside  him, 
and  was  warned,  if  only  by  the  flutter  of  an 
eyelid,  that  he  was  on  dangerous  ground — 
"I  didn't  know  you  then.  And  now,  please, 
believe  me,  I  want  to  pull  up,  and  you  can 
help  me,  if  you  will." 

"How?" 

"By  forgetting  all  I  said  or  did  in  that 
unlucky  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  allowing  me 
to — to  be  a  friend  of  yours. ' ' 

"Am  I  to  forget  all  you  said?" 

"Yes — no.  I'll  sail  under  no  false  colors. 
I  said  I  wanted  to  marry  you.  I  want  to  be 
a  friend  of  yours  now  with  that  end  in  view. ' ' 

"But,  how  ridiculous!  I  don't  even  know 
you — and  you  don't  know  me." 

"I  don't  want " 

1 1  No.  Of  course  you  don 't.  There 's  a  man 
all  over.  You  don't  want  to  know  more  of 
me — only  to  marry  me.  Oh,  you're  mad!" 

"lam— a  bit." 

"I'm  glad  you've  the  grace  te  admit  it. 
Now,  listen  to  me. ' '  She  turned  on  the  pave- 
ment outside  the  suburban  station,  and  held 
up  a  finger  admonishingly.  "I  met  you  for 
the  first  time  five  days  ago.  Our  first  meet- 
ing was  accidental.  Then — I  don't  want  to 
rub  it  in — you  showed  your  respect  and  ad- 
miration for  me  by  stopping  me  in  Chancery 
[185] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

Lane  and  asking  me  to  lunch.  I  accepted  be- 
cause it  saved  me  the  price  of  a  lunch.  No; 
I  won't  tell  stories  either.  I  accepted  be- 
cause I  was  sorry  for  you — your  eyes  looked 
tired  and  sad — and,  besides,  I'm  a  writer,  and 
all  types  of  people  are  interesting,  and  you 
had  a  brown,  healthy  skin,  and  looked  like 
a  strong  man  who  had  lived  in  the  open  air. 
It  seemed  strange  that  you  should  be  idling 
as  you  were,  and  so  I  thought  perhaps  you 
would  be  useful  material.  I'll  admit  I  con- 
gratulated myself  on  that  lunch.  Your 
stories  of  the  North  Sea  were  very  interest- 
ing; you  told  them  well,  and  I  liked  you. 

''Then — forgive  me  for  recalling  it — came 
that  dreadful  time  in  your  rooms,  and  I  was 
shocked  beyond  measure.  You  had  been 
drinking — I  don't  know  how  much,  and  I 
don't  care — and  you  treated  me—  How 
did  you  treat  me  ?  Do  you  want  me  to  remind 
you?" 

Laurence  looked  at  his  boots.  "No,"  he 
said  shortly. 

"Now  I  put  it  to  you.  If  anyone  had 
served  you  so,  and  then  came  seeking  your 
further  acquaintance,  how  would  you  feel? 
Remember  all  I  know  of  you  is  that  you  were 
a  fisherman;  that  you've  come  into  money; 
that  you  have  been  living  a  life  of  folly — and 
perhaps  worse;  and  that  you've  grievously 
[186] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

insulted  me.  That  you  are  obviously  an  edu- 
cated man  only  makes  matters  worse.  And 
now,  can  you  blame  me  for  wishing  to  see  no 
more  of  you  ? ' ' 

"Lord  knows  I  can't,"  Laurence  said  hum- 
bly. '  *  You  think  that  I  'm  just  a  drunken, 
vicious  brute  of  the  lower  orders  who  has 
come  to  London  to  spend  money  he  would 
be  better  without.  I  know  that,  and  it's  true, 
worse  luck.  That's  pretty  much  what  I  am. 
But,  see  here,  I  wasn't  always  a  fisherman 
or  a  brute  either.  It  was  no  fault  of  mine 
that  I  had  to  take  to  the  life  and  live  among 
brutes  that  have  left  their  stamp  on  me. 
And  now  I  want — I  really  do  want  to 
reform.  And  you  can  help  me — nobody  else 
can." 

"But  how?  Why  should  I?  You've  talked 
of  marrying  me.  If  I  allow  you  to  be 
friendly  with  me  you'll  have  that  idea  at  the 
back  of  your  head  all  the  time,  and  when  you 
find  out  the  truth  you'll  only  go  back  to  your 
bad  ways  again. ' ' 

"The  truth!"  Laurence  asked. 

"Yes,  the  truth.  I  don't  want  to  marry 
you.  I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody,  as  far 
as  that  goes.  But  you — great  heavens !  man, 
I  wouldn't  marry  you  if  you  were  the  last 
man  on  earth.  A  man  who  has  behaved  as 
you  have — a  man  who  gives  the  impression 
[187] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

of  being  strong,  and  yet  can't  cut  himself 
adrift  from  a  horribly  unclean  life  without 
the  help  of  a  woman  he  hasn't  known  for  five 
days !  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know  what  you  're  going  to 
say!  That  it  shows  the  strength  of  your 
feelings.  It  doesn't.  It  shows  your  weak — 
your  babyish — want  of  self-control.  If  ever 
I  marry  it  will  be  a  man  who  could  be  my 
master — not  one  I  have  to  lead.  And  be- 
sides," she  finished  lamely,  with  a  little 
nervous,  womanly  laugh,  "  you  're  dark,  and 
I  prefer  fair  men.  I'm  dark  myself,  you  see. 
So  please  put  the  idea  out  of  your  head.  I 
could  never  marry  you.  Never — never — 
never ! ' ' 

Laurence's  self-conceit  was  returning.  He 
congratulated  himself  on  arriving  at  the  dig- 
nity of  so  lengthy,  so  temperate  a  reprimand, 
but  his  tongue  was  bitted  as  he  answered. 

"Then  we'll  say  no  more  about  it.  But 
now,  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  being 
tabooed,  may  I  repeat  my  first  request?  I 
still  have  nearly  a  month  to  spend  in  town, 
and  I  should  like  to  see  more  of  you.  Will 
you  allow  me  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  you 
— always  understanding  that  it  leads  to  noth- 
ing else  I  You  spoke  of  persecution  just  now. 
If  you  feel  that,  you  have  only  to  beckon  the 
nearest  policeman." 

She  looked  up,  and  there  was  a  faint  sus- 
[188] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

picion  of  a  smile  in  her  eyes  and  about  the 
corners  of  her  lips. 

1  'We've  met  three  times,  and  have  sug- 
gested calling  in  the  police  on  two  of  them," 
she  replied.  "That  looks  promising,  doesn't 
it?" 

Laurence  laughed.  "Unlucky  circum- 
stances, as  I  told  you.  Now,  please,  your  an- 
swer. ' ' 

"Very  well.  I  go  up  West  generally  on 
Mondays  and  Fridays.  On  those  days  you 
may  see  me  this  far.  On  other  days  I  won't 
promise,  but  providing  that  you  behave — I 
beg  your  pardon.  I'm  sure  you  will,  now. 
Won't  you?"  Laurence  contented  himself 
with  a  nod — "I  won't  promise,  but  Mrs.  Jar- 
dine  has  a  season  ticket  at  Earl's  Court,  and 
we  go  there  to  listen  to  the  band  in  the  even- 
ings. If  she  has  no  objection,  you  may  come 
as  well — sometimes.  And  now  I  must  go. 
You've  nearly  made  me  lose  my  train  as  it  is. 
Good-by. ' '  She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Lau- 
rence took  it,  echoing  her  farewell,  and  went 
back  to  his  room,  walking  on  air. 


[189] 


CHAPTER  XV 


FOB  the  next  three  blissful  days  Laurence 
saw  his  divinity  at  least  once  in  every  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  his  heart  sang  paeans.  On 
two  occasions  he  was  privileged  to  go  with 
her  on  her  evening  promenade  in  the  Exhi- 
bition grounds,  once  in  the  company  of  Mrs. 
Jardine,  the  landlady,  and  once  alone.  Fired 
with  the  determination  to  please,  he  behaved 
excellently,  and  the  roughness  and  curtness 
once  shorn  from  his  manner,  he  proved  a 
delightful  companion.  Some  of  the  gentle 
breeding  of  early  years  took  form  again, 
and  the  obvious  strength  of  the  man,  as 
marked  in  his  cheery  egotism  as  in  his 
mighty  shoulders,  did  something  towards 
modifying  Marion  Stewart's  first  opinions. 
She  watched  him  covertly,  noting  his  man- 
ner, his  carriage,  his  firm  light  footstep, 
rendered  sure  and  agile  by  two  years  of 
cramped  surroundings,  of  moving  on  rolling 
decks,  and  the  more  she  saw  the  more  she  ap- 
proved of  him.  To  see  him  swing  back  a 
chair  with  one  easy  motion  of  arm  and  body 
and  seat  himself  in  the  requisite  pose  for  con- 
versation, without  shufflings  of  feet  or  uneasy 
[190] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

fidgeting  into  position,  was  a  pleasure  to  her 
eye,  and  she  found  herself  mentally  stringing 
words,  writer  fashion,  to  describe  the  light, 
quick  strength  of  his  muscular  frame. 

He  spoke  well,  too,  and  this,  being  a  matter 
within  her  own  province,  met  with  due  appre- 
ciation. For  all  that  his  early  education  had 
been  relegated  to  oblivion,  the  greatest  bene- 
fit the  classics  have  to  bestow  still  remained 
to  him — the  clear,  free  use  of  an  un- 
trammelled vocabulary.  To  have  the  root- 
stocks  of  modern  tongues  well  grounded  at 
childhood  and  in  youth  is  to  lay  the  founda- 
tion-stone of  the  fabric  of  language  well  and 
truly.  That  he  had  upon  it  acquired  the 
broad  strength  of  the  rough-hewn  Northland 
speech  was  a  benefit  for  which,  being  igno- 
rant of  its  value,  he  gave  no  thanks  to  Provi- 
dence. An'd  yet,  to  the  girl,  striving  at  an 
apprenticeship  in  her  native  tongue,  his  swift 
answers,  his  ready  repartee,  and  the  forceful 
strength  of  words  in  which  he  clothed 
strongly  held  opinions,  came  as  lesson  on  les- 
son. She  began  to  put  cases  to  him,  to  de- 
mand explanations  of  the  scheme  of  things  as 
it  appeared  to  her,  less  with  the  desire  of 
gaining  his  opinion  for  its  own  value,  than 
for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  hearing  the  decisive 
and  powerful  construction  of  the  sentences 
in  which  he  expressed  it. 
[191] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

A  woman  with  any  other  training  would 
have  admired  the  man  himself  as  seen  loom- 
ing behind  the  compelling  words ;  but  Marion 
Stewart,  prepossessed  by  an  idea  of  his  weak- 
ness of  character,  always  explained  away  any 
feeling  he  might  excite  in  her  by  the  same 
formula. 

"  He's  a  speaker,"  she  decided,  with  a  sage 
nod  of  her  little  head.  "Just  a  speaker. 
That's  all.  If  only  I  had  the  man's  words  to 
use, — and  they're  of  no  use  to  him,  not  a  bit, 
— I  could  do  something  with  them.  A  good 
education,  and  the  need  since  to  speak  and 
give  orders  clearly  and  distinctly  without 
waste  of  words  or  time.  What  a  training !  I 
shall  have  to  wait  twenty  years  before  I  shall 
have  the  right  word  instinctively  at  command 
as  he  has.  That's  a  man's  education.  Why 
can't  we  all  be  trained  alike  ? ' ' 

She  dimly  resented  Laurence's  gift  of 
tongues;  but  her  analysis  left  one  important 
point  out  of  the  question.  Her  words,  written 
never  so  carefully,  could  never  be  more  than 
so  many  black  and  white  symbols,  while 
Laurence's  tongue  was  backed  by  his  eyes  and 
hands,  and — though  of  this  she  stood  self- 
blinded — by  a  strong  individuality.  Even 
had  she  been  told  this  very  thing  by  the  most 
admired  of  her  fellow-craftsmen,  she  would 
have  rejected  the  idea  with  scorn,  so  sure  was 
[192] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

she,  in  her  singleness  of  mind,  that  the  man's 
words  and  not  his  personality  were  the  influ- 
encing factors  in  her  thoughts. 

As  for  Laurence,  he  walked  precariously, 
although,  fortunately  for  himself,  he  had  no 
fear  of  disillusioning  his  lady's  eyes.  The  ice 
once  broken,  he  progressed  rapidly  in  her 
favor,  and,  conscious  that  unrestrained 
speech  and  action  could  hurt  him  but  little  in 
her  opinion  since  that  evil  beginning  of  ac- 
quaintance, spoke  almost  as  freely  to  her  as 
he  would  have  done  to  another  man.  Once  or 
twice,  indeed,  he  slipped  into  such  a  careless 
oath  as  men  commonly  use  in  nearer  inter- 
course, receiving  no  further  reprimand  than 
an  uplifted  finger  and  a  disapproving  shake 
of  her  head.  Fearing  to  put  restrictions  on 
his  speech,  she  made  no  further  objection ;  but 
Laurence,  appreciating  her  leniency,  swore  no 
more,  though  his  criticisms  and  comments  in 
ordinary  conversation  lost  nothing  of  their 
freedom  and  caustic  point. 

On  Thursday  he  went  to  call  on  Dwyer  ac- 
cording to  appointment.  To  his  delight,  his 
friend  was  able  to  report  some  progress. 

"There  were  six  guinea-pigs,  and  I  think 
I  've  got  'em  all, ' '  he  said.  ' '  All  that  are  alive 
and  at  large,  that  is.  Dewhurst  blew  his 
brains  out  last  year — best  thing  he  ever  did 
in  his  life,  I  should  say.  I've  written  to  his 
[193  ] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

executors,  and  that'll  be  all  right,  for  certain. 
Poultney,  chairman  of  directors — Sir  Thomas 
George  Evelyn  Poultney,  of  Middlemarsh 
Hall,  Berks — has  changed  his  address.  Vir- 
ginia Water's  his  country  house  now — though 
why  they  wanted  to  lock  up  that  poor  water- 
headed  softly,  Lord  knows.  I've  written  to 
his  man  of  business  as  well.  Mortimer  & 
Reingold  held  a  share  apiece,  the  pretty 
dears,  and  the  other  two  were  a  shirt  mer- 
chant in  the  city  and  his  head  clerk.  Well- 
sounding  suburban  addresses  they  had,  and 
they'd  done  business  with  your  father  before. 
How  the  deuce  any  man  could  have  been 
fooled  with  such  a  palpable  fraud,  I'm  dashed 
if  I  know." 

"Never  mind  about  the  fraud,"  Laurence 
interrupted.  "Have  you  got  the  shares?" 

"All  except  Poultney 's  and  Dewhurst's, 
and  there  won't  be  any  bother  with  them.  I 
didn't  dare  go  to  M.  &  E.  for  the  purpose, 
so  I  met  'em  accidentally — I  know  where 
they're  to  be  found  at  midday — and  had  a 
drink  with  'em.  While  we  were  chatting  I 
mentioned  that  I'd  seen  you  a  few  days  be- 
fore, and  that  you  were  in  fair  raiment,  beau- 
tiful to  behold,  and  fatted  and  sleek.  I  also 
mentioned  that  you'd  been  breaking  hearts, 
and  mentioned  the  fair  Constance.  D'you 
mind!" 

[194] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"I  don't  see  why  you  need  have  dragged 
that  in,"  Laurence  grumbled.  "Go  on," 

"Don't  you?  Well,  I  do.  Your  being  back 
here  amounts  to  nothing,  but  if  you've  been 
hanging  around  that  description  of  shop  win- 
dow, it's  possible  you've  money  to  spend. 
Anyhow,  that  sheeny,  Eeingold,  pricked  up 
his  ears. 

"  '  Where 'd  he  get  the  brath?'  he  asked. 

"  'How  should  I  know?'  I  said.  'No  affair 
of  mine. ' 

"Then  they  talked  about  you  for  a  bit,  and 
Reingold  said  he  supposed  you'd  done  pretty 
well  out  of  the  estate.  'Artful  young  cove,' 
he  said  you  were.  'Fancy  his  selling  hith 
yacht,  an'  all.  Thpeculation  couldn't  account 
for  all  those  thousands,  my  dear.  I  tell  you, 
Herman  Averil  wathn't  a  gambler,  really 
thpeakin'.'  " 

"Didn't  you  kick  him?"  Laurence  asked 
savagely. 

"Kick  him?  Not  much.  What  for,  my 
grossly  libeled  angel?  Nothing  about  kick- 
ing in  my  instructions.  I  drank  up  and  made 
out  I  was  going  to  quit,  and  they  asked  me 
to  have  another.  I  wouldn't,  I  said,  and  then 
as  an  afterthought  I  suggested  tossing  for 
the  three  drinks.  '  Let 's  make  a  little  gamble 
of  it,'  I  said.  'I've  got  a  share  in  that  com- 
pany of  old  Averil 's — the  Iceland  Develop- 
[195] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 


ment  Company,  that  showed  up  so  at  the  in- 
quiry. You  two  have  a  share  each.  Let's 
toss  for  drinks,  the  loser  to  take  all  three 


shares  and  see  what  he  can  get  for  'em  from 
young  Averil.  The  pup  may  be  ready  to  pay 
a  quid  apiece  for  'em  rather  than  have  us  rub- 
bing 'em  on  his  nose.' 

"They  agreed,  and  I'm  hanged  if  Mortimer 
didn't  win  the  shares.     He  growled  at  it — 
[196] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

said  he  didn't  know  you  personally,  and  so 
what  chance  had  he  of  pulling  your  leg!  I 
laughed,  and  offered  to  toss  him  again,  half 
a  quid  or  nothing  for  the  three  shares — and 
here  they  are." 

He  showed  the  scrip  to  Laurence,  laughing. 

1  'Good  man  you  are,  Pat." 

''Oh,  that's  all  right!  It's  a  pleasure  to 
do  that  pack.  I  enjoyed  it,  man." 

"And  how  about  the  debentures,  and  were 
there  any  other  ordinaries,  and  if  so,  who's 
got  them?"  Laurence  demanded. 

1 '  There  were  a  hundred  debentures  at  a 
hundred  pounds  each,  and  they  were  all  taken 
up  by  that  old  fool  down  in  Somerset.  He 
paid  ninety-five  quid  apiece  for  'em — six  per 
cent,  debentures.  The  thing  screams  aloud, 
don 'tit?" 

"Finance  isn't  taught  at  sea— much.  Go 
on." 

"  Expert o  crede,  eh?  I  told  you  I  judged 
you'd  been  seafaring,  at  the  very  first. 

"Well,  in  addition  to  this  ten  thousand 
quids'  worth  of  bee-you-tiful  paper,  he 
weighed  out  for  eight  hundred  of  the  ordi- 
nary stock,  and  that's  all  that  was  ever 
issued." 

"Who's  got  'em?" 

* '  His  daughter.  She 's  a  lone,  lorn  spinster, 
and  if — mark  you,  I  say  if— there's  anything 
[197] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

in  this  deal,  and  you  make  money  by  it,  I 
think  you're  a  worthy  son  of  a  worthy  father 
—that's  all." 

Laurence  thought  of  Marion,  and  the 
crowded,  hungry  town  so  full  of  danger,  and 
hardened  his  heart. 

" She's  not  the  only  single  woman  in 
the  world.  I  want  those  shares,  Pat, 
and  I  must  have  'em.  If  you're  going 
to  get  conscience-stricken  at  dealing  with  a 
woman " 

"Pooh,  man,  that's  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
I'm  acting  as  your  agent.  It's  for  you  to  say 
what's  to  be  done." 

' '  Can  you  get  'em,  do  you  think ! ' ' 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  The  lady  is  alone,  with- 
out advisers,  and  I  shouldn't  think  there 
ought  to  be  any  difficulty.  Harper's  evidence 
as  to  the  value  of  the  land  was  pretty  con- 
clusive, and  I  should  think  she  ought  to  be 
glad  to  see  a  hundred  quid  down  in  place  of 
paper  that  anyone  can  tell  her  is  valueless. 
She's  called " 

"Don't  tell  me,"  Laurence  interrupted 
quickly.  "I  don't  want  to  know  who  she  is. 
It's  one  thing  to  rob  an  abstract  nonentity, 
but  another  to  do  a  woman  down  when  you 
know  her  name  or  anything  about  her.  I'll 
tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I've  got  a  billet  waiting 
for  me,  and  I  ought  to  be  able  to  save  a  hun- 
[198] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

dred  by  the  end  of  the  year.    I  live  small,  you 
know. ' ' 

' '  I  don't  know  anything  of  the  sort.  On  the 
contrary " 

1 '  Oh,  shut  up,  do.  I  '11  reckon  on  saving  that 
hundred.  You  can  offer  her  a  hundred  down, 
and  a  hundred  in  twelve  months'  time.  I'll 
undertake  that  much — and  that's  all  I  jolly 
well  will  do.  Will  that  be  enough  ? ' ' 

"It'll  be  enough  to  buy  the  shares,  for  cer- 
tain, ' '  Dwyer  said.  * '  I  really  think  a  hundred 
would  do  that.  If  you  desire  to  salve  your 
conscience  you  can  offer  the  extra  sum." 

"Well,  I'll  do  it,  then.  Conscience  be 
sugared ! — I  haven't  got  one.  But  since  it's  a 
woman  I'll  do  that  much  for  her." 

' 'Very  well.  Call  again  on  Monday,  and  if 
I've  got  the  shares  you  shall  have  'em  then. 
Oh,  by  the  way,  one  thing.  The  day  after  I 
got  those  shares  from  Mortimer  &  Eeingold 
that  sheeny  came  here. 

"  'Look  here,'  he  said.  'A  joke'th  a  joke, 
Dwyer,  my  boy.  About  those  shares  of 
Averil's  we  tossed  for  yethterday — I  under- 
stood you  to  thay  you  were  a  holder.' 

* '  I  told  him  I  was,  and  he  wanted  to  know 
how  that  could  be?  Artful  devils  they  are. 
Would  you  believe  it,  he'd  gone  and  had  a 
look  at  the  list  of  shareholders— after  carry- 
ing the  thing  out  as  a  joke  like  that." 
[199] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

"They  must  have  suspected  something 
from  your  manner,"  Laurence  suggested,  a 
sinking  at  his  heart. 

"Not  they — I  don't  think  so,  anyhow.  It's 
just  their  infernal  methodical  way  of  doing 
things. 

"Well,  he  asked  how  I  was  a  shareholder, 
and  like  a  fool — I  ought  to  have  grinned  at 
the  idea  of  diddling  'em  out  of  a  couple  of 
shares,  as  if  it  were  of  no  importance — like  a 
fool  I  pulled  open  my  drawer  and  showed  him 
the  shares  I'd  got  from  Hayley  and  his  clerk. 
'  I  bought  them  yesterday, '  I  told  him.  Blame 
fool !  I  could  have  kicked  myself  the  moment 
I'd  spoken." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Nothing  to  speak  of.  He  just  glanced  at 
them:  'Ah!  four  shares,'  he  said.  'Well,  if 
you  get  'em  all  for  nothing  you'll  be  able  to 
treat  yourthelf  to  a  dinner  out  of  young 
Averil,'  and  then  he  cleared  out." 

"Can  he  find  out  who's  got  the  other 
shares?"  Laurence  asked  anxiously. 

'  *  Course  he  can.  We  're  a  bit  ahead  of  the 
game,  because  we've  got  the  address  of  the 
present  holder,  and  it'll  take  him  a  day  or  two 
to  get  that,  however  much  he  hurries.  But  I 
shouldn't  bother,  if  I  were  you.  I  don't  ex- 
pect he'll  think  any  more  of  it,  and  if  he  does, 
he's  first  got  to  get  the  address,  as  I  say;  and 
[200] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 


after  that  lie  won't  offer  twenty  pounds  for 
the  shares.  Trust  a  Jew,  my  boy.  We  shall 
have  bagged  the  lot  by  the  time  he's  made  a 


move. 

H 


Let's  hope  so,"  Laurence  said,  with  some 
forebodings.  * '  Is  that  all  I " 

* '  Yes.  And  now,  are  you  going  to  stand  me 
a  lunch,  or  am  I  going  to  stand  you  one? 
Toss  for  it,  eh?  Eight.  Where  have  you  been 
keeping  yourself  this  last  week?  I'm  bored 
and  Connie's  disconsolate.  She  was  here 
after  your  address  last  Monday — and  young 
Farrant  puts  on  more  side  than  ever.  If  I 
were  as  big  as  you,  Laurie,  and  any  geological 
whelp  cut  me  out,  I'd  kick  him,  hard.  Why 
this  sudden  retirement  from  a  life  of 
pleasure?" 

"A  life  of  footle.  I'm  fed  with  it,  man. 
I've  had  my  fling,  and  it's* but  a  weary  busi- 
ness at  best.  I  shan't  be  in  town  longer  than 
another  month,  Pat,  and  then  I'm  going  back 
to  work,  like  a  good  boy." 

"Well,  that's  good  hearing.  I  tell  you, 
when  first  you  arrived  in  town  a  month  ago, 
I  felt  nervous.  Y'see,  you  were  always  such  a 
whole-hog  sort  of  cove,  and  you  gave  me  to 
understand  that  you  were  rolling  in  wealth. 
And  certainly  you  managed  to  put  in  a  month 
of  spree  that  would  have  killed  a  horse  if  it 
had  lasted  a  year.  What's  the  meaning  of 
[201] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

this  sudden  pull  up  ?   And  when  are  you  going 
to  disclose  your  'orrible  past?" 

"I'll  tell  you  now,"  Laurence  said,  desir- 
ous of  turning  aside  inquiries  as  to  his  pres- 
ent manner  of  living.  "I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it,  Pat,  and  you  can  see  for  yourself  whether 
I  was  driven  hard  or  no."  And  over  the 
luncheon  table,  omitting  only  all  mention  of 
his  landing  in  Iceland,  he  gave  Dwyer  the 
history  of  the  past  two  years. 


[202] 


CHAPTER  XVI 


ALTHOUGH  Miss  Constance  Armitage's  char- 
acter presented  many  traits  not  generally 
esteemed  as  virtues,  she  possessed  at  least 
one,  the  value  of  which  is  rarely  denied — she 
was  a  business  woman.  Some  few  years  of  a 
precarious  existence,  spent  for  the  greater 
part  in  touring  companies  of  the  "No.  2" 
grade,  had  destroyed  any  of  the  small  trust 
she  had  ever  been  inclined  to  put  in  mankind, 
and  although  an  occasional  advertisement  in 
the  Era  described  her  as  "  resting  "  at  the 
present  time,  it  may  safely  be  averred  that 
the  description  was  inaccurate.  Indeed,  be- 
fore her  meeting  with  Laurence  she  was 
pressed  for  money  harshly,  and  her  exertions 
towards  amassing  it  were  as  little  restful  as 
they  well  could  be.  In  this  predicament  his 
advent  on  her  horizon  had  seemed  like  provi- 
dence, and  an  almost  genuine  warmth  at  heart 
testified  not  only  to  the  value  of  his  gifts,  but 
also  to  the  straits  to  which  she  had  been  re- 
duced before  she  had  met  him. 

Added   to    this,    purely   business   woman 
though  she  esteemed  herself  to  be,  was  an- 
other feeling.  Thoroughly  and  heartily  weary 
[203] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

of  the  types  of  men  most  commonly  met  by 
the  women  of  her  class,  Laurence  came  to  her 
with  the  freshness  of  salt  sea  breezes.  His 
strength  and  quickness,  even  his  coarseness 
and  brutality,  were  a  change  from  the  sickly 
sweetened  compliments  and  cheap  adulation 
paid  to  her  hitherto.  Moreover — most  en- 
dearing of  characteristics — he  spent  money 
royally,  and  their  last  drive  to  Eichmond,  fol- 
lowed by  the  supper  at  his  rooms,  had  been 
invested  with  a  new  and  novel  interest  for  her 
— the  extraordinary  feeling  of  really  liking  a 
man  for  his  own  sake,  and  not  as  a  matter  of 
convenience.  She  had  kissed  him  at  parting 
with  some  approach  to  real  emotion;  and  as 
she  stood  outside  the  door  of  her  motor-car — 
jobbed  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Mortimer, 
stockbroker,  of  the  firm  of  Mortimer  &  Rein- 
gold — she  looked  at  his  tall  figure  upon  the 
pavement  with  the  first  feeling  of  admiration 
for  a  man  she  had  felt  since  she  was  seven- 
teen. And,  alas!  she  was  nine-and-twenty 
now,  although  she  successfully  denied  it. 

She  spoke  of  the  feelings  of  her  maiden 
heart  to  a  bosom  friend  next  morning.  The 
friend,  who  was  shopping,  had  called  in  to 
borrow  three  shillings  with  which  to  buy 
gloves.  "  My  tick's  stopped  at  Stagg  & 
Mantle's,"  she  said  in  extenuation,  and  nar- 
rated a  little  piece  of  personal  history  that 
[204] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

would  have  been  the  most  commonplace  of 
domestic  squabbles  had  she  but  been  married 
to  the  gentleman  with  whom  she  had  dis- 
agreed. As  she  was  not,  the  tale  possessed  an 
interest  all  its  own. 

"Men  are  beasts,  anyway,"  she  concluded. 

"M-m,"  murmured  Miss  Armitage.  She 
was  standing  before  a  mirror,  her  mouth  full 
of  hairpins  and  her  fingers  busy  at  a  stray 
tress  behind  her  ears.  She  pushed  in  the  last 
pin  with  exact  accuracy,  regarding  the  effect 
sideways  in  the  glass,  then  with  a  swishing  of 
disarranged  petticoats  produced  a  small  puff 
from  the  neighborhood  of  her  knee  and 
dabbed  at  her  nose  meditatively. 

"M-m,"  she  said  again,  replacing  the 
puff.  "Yes  I  suppose  they  are — of  course 
they  are.  But  it's  our  fault.  "We're  such 
fools." 

4 'What  on  earth  makes  you  take  that  tone!'* 
her  friend  asked  indignantly.  "Fools!  You 
speak  for  yourself,  Connie,  my  dear.  If  you 
like  to  call  yourself  a  fool  you're  welcome, 
I'm  sure." 

"I  believe  I  am  half  a  fool,  and  that's  a 
fact.  I—  Do  you  think  you  could  get  silly 
about  a  man,  Lucy  ? ' ' 

"I?  The  idea!  And  you— of  all  girls  in 
the  world.  Who  is  it?  Do  tell  me.  I'm  just 

dying " 

[205] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

"You  know  Mm.  He  was  here  at  tea  last 
week  when  you  came  in." 

"What — young  Avery,  or  whatever  his 
name  is?  The  one  you  called  Lucifer?  The 
man  with  big  ugly  hands  and  a  bad  temper? 
Is  that  the  one?" 

Constance  Armitage  walked  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  upon  the  quiet  street. 

*  *  Y-yes, ' '  she  said.  *  *  What  do  you  think  of 
him?" 

"  Oh,  I  don 't  know.  Bit  of  a  brute,  I  should 
think.  But  he's  rich,  isn't  he?  " 

"I  suppose  so" — wearily.  "I — I  don't 
care  if  he  isn't.  He's  a  man.  Yes,  and  he's 
a  bit  of  a  brute  too — that's  what  I  like  him 
for." 

"  'Twouldn't  do  for  all  of  us  to  think  alike," 
the  friend  sagely  remarked.  "Personally,  I 
should  prefer  young  Farrant.  He 's  quite  the 
gentleman — and  the  other  isn't.  But,  fool  as 
you  call  yourself,  I  notice  you  choose  the 
richer  man  to  get  silly  about.  You'll  steer 
clear  of  Hanwell  if  you  don't  get  worse  symp- 
toms than  that,  my  dear."  She  wandered 
down  the  stairs  and  took  her  three  shillings  to 
Leicester  Square,  leaving  Miss  Armitage  to 
indulge  in  day-dreams. 

Her  newly  discovered  predilection  for  Lau- 
rence was  not  a  sufficiently  strong  impulse  to 
make  her  manner  anything  but  pleasant  to 
[206] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Farrant,  who  preceded  him  that  afternoon,  as 
has  already  been  told.  Laurence's  rude- 
ness alarmed  her  but  little.  She  had  often 
enough  before  now  been  subjected  to  insults 
beside  which  mere  discourtesy  paled ;  and  she 
never  conceived  it  possible  that  Laurence, 
who  had  sought  her  acquaintance,  could  be 
wearying  of  her  just  at  the  moment  when  her 
own  thoughts  began  steadily  to  turn  towards 
him.  She  wondered  when  he  failed  to  arrive 
at  dinner,  but  her  manner  to  her  companion 
lacked  nothing  of  charm  on  that  account. 
Only,  on  her  return  home,  "He's  jealous  of 
that  fool  boy,"  she  reflected.  "I  oughtn't  to 
have  shown  him  that  pendant.  I'll  write  and 
ask  him  to  call  again  to-morrow,  or  maybe 
he'll  sulk  for  a  week."  The  note  spoke  only 
of  a  future  meeting;  but  in  its  carefully 
chosen  words  were  gentle  hope,  a  fore- 
shadowed meekness  and  sorrow  in  the  event 
of  that  meeting  not  taking  place,  and  a  vague 
regret  at  the  untoward  occurrences  of  the 
afternoon  before.  In  a  word,  it  was  a  little 
chef  d'osuvre  of  its  kind,  and  it  is  to  be  re- 
gretted that  Laurence  burned  it  unanswered 
on  the  morning  of  its  arrival. 

All    through    that    day    she    waited,    and 

through  the  next.     The  last  three  Sundays 

had  seen  him  at  her  tea-table,  and  she  made 

sure  that  he  must  call  on  this,  only  to  be 

[207] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

again  disappointed.  Though  bitter  experi- 
ence had  before  now  taught  her  how  little 
value  attaches  to  easily  plucked  fruit,  on  Mon- 
day she  took  the,  for  her,  unusual  course  of 
calling  upon  him  at  New  Cavendish  Street, 
only  to  find  him  gone  and  the  key  of  his  rooms 
in  the  hall  porter's  hands.  It  says  much  for 
her  self-possession  that  she  was  able  to  make 
perfectly  coherent  inquiries  about  her  miss- 
ing shoe;  and  the  porter's  wife  being  called, 
it  was  handed  to  her,  with  an  audible  accom- 
paniment of  virtuous  sniffs. 

"Them  smutty  marks  was  on  it  when  I 
found  it,"  that  lady  informed  her.  "Mr. 
Averil,  'e'd  throwed  it  be'ind  the  fireplace," 
she  was  glad  to  be  able  to  add. 

"So  he  tells  me,"  Miss  Armitage  replied, 
in  her  sweetest  manner.  Her  use  of  the 
present  tense  adroitly  turned  the  tables  on  the 
matron  by  implying  that  Laurence  had  left 
the  rooms  for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  more 
of  her  society. 

The  porter's  wife  sniffed  again  and  retired, 
and  Constance  drove  to  Chancery  Lane  to  ask 
Dwyer  for  Laurence's  present  address. 

"I  don't  know  it,  my  dear  girl,"  he  said. 
"I  swear  I  don't — really  and  truly.  I  had 
dinner  with  him  last  Thursday,  and  since  then 
I  haven't  set  eyes  on  him.  I've  got  an  ap- 
pointment with  him  on  Thursday  next,  and 
[208] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

I  '11  tell  him  you  want  to  see  him  then,  if  you 
like." 

"Oh  no — no.  Don't  trouble.  I  don't  really 

want  to  see  him,  only — only "  She 

stopped.  Only  now  did  she  begin  to  under- 
stand that  she  really  did  want  to  see  him  very 
much  indeed.  But,  "It's  of  no  importance," 
she  assured  Dwyer,  and  drove  back  to  her  flat 
in  a  frame  of  mind  bordering  on  jealous 
tears.  She  guessed  he  had  gone  to  Paris.  He 
had  spoken  of  going — had  even  offered,  in  a 
careless  moment,  to  take  her  with  him.  With 
the  thought  of  Harry  Mortimer  before  her 
eyes,  she  had  refused.  Judicious  lying  would 
square  this  business  with  him,  but  a  trip  to 
Paris  meant  a  definite  break  and  probably  an 
unpleasant  row;  and  although  Mortimer  was 
fat,  and  oily  in  pleasantry,  she  still  could 
hardly  afford  that  until  she  was  more  sure  of 
Laurence.  As  has  been  remarked,  she  was 
pre-eminently  a  business  woman.  And  now 
Laurence  had  gone  alone,  just  as  she  discov- 
ered she  liked  him  well  enough  to  go  anywhere 
with  him — to  Kamtschatka,  if  need  be — al- 
ways assuming  she  could  go  by  train  de  luxe, 
of  course.  It  was  intensely  annoying,  and 
picturing  him  behaving  in  Paris  as  he  had  in 
London,  she  really  did  cry  a  little  when  she 
went  to  bed  that  night. 

When  next  morning  brought  a  wire  from 

[209] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

Mortimer  announcing  his  intention  of  calling 
on  her  that  afternoon,  she  did  not  cry — she 
swore.  None  the  less  she  did  her  hair  care- 
fully, put  on  a  new  blouse,  and  went  through 
her  desk  with  vigilance.  Mortimer  had  a 
nasty  knack  of  demanding  keys — which  could 
not  well  be  refused — and  routing  out  drawers 
with  a  wary  eye  for  unpaid  bills.  It  showed 
the  vilest  taste,  she  had  many  times  assured 
him ;  but  bluff  Harry,  who  had  been  a  butcher 
in  a  small  way  before  a  lucky  bet  had  placed 
the  capital  for  his  first  stock  and  share  trans- 
action in  his  hands,  was  moved  by  her  opinion 
no  whit.  His  habit  of  announcing  his  in- 
tended visits  by  wire  Constance  regarded  as  a 
special  interposition  of  Fate  on  her  behalf. 

"I  hear  that  young  whelp  Averil's  been 
hanging  about  after  you,"  he  -remarked 
genially  over  the  teacups.  The  warmth  of  the 
day  had  induced  him  to  remove  his  coat,  and 
his  tight  waistcoat  showed  his  overfed  figure 
to  advantage.  Constance,  reclining  in  a  long 
chair  with  her  back  to  the  window,  looked  at 
him  with  a  new  feeling  that  was  not  at  all 
admiration. 

"Why  l whelp'?"  she  asked  languidly. 

"  'Cause  he  is — 'cause  I  say  he  is." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"No — nor  don't  want  to.  I  knew  his 
father — stuck-up  hypocrite ! — and  that's  all  I 
[210] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

want  to  know  of  that  lot.  He  shot  himself. 
You've  heard  of  the  big  Averil  smash  two 
years  ago,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Who  told  you  I  knew 
him?" 

"Young  Dwyer — yesterday.  Eeingold  and 
me  was  having  a  drink,  and  he  joined  us." 

1 '  How  did  he  come  to  mention  Lau — young 
Averil?" 

"Lau— what?" 

"Laurence,  he's  called." 

"An'  you've  got  to  christened  names,  'ave 
you?"  He  grinned  angrily.  "You  better 
take  care,  my  dear.  Of  course  I  know  you 
can't  help  havin'  these  boys  hangin'  about 
you — lookin'  out  for  an  engagement  as  you 
are.  But  if  you  make  me  jealous,  you're 
steerin'  for  trouble,  I  needn't  tell  you." 

' ' My  dear  Harry !  Don't  be  silly  now, * ' 

Her  protestations  having  soothed  him,  she 
returned  warily  to  the  subject. 

"But  you  didn't  tell  me  how  Dwyer  came 
to  be  speaking  of  me,"  she  said. 

"He  said  he'd  seen  this  young  whelp  in 
town,  an'  that  he  was  hangin'  about  after 
you;  an'  as  your  acquaintance  had  a  way  of 
comin'  expensive,  he  supposed  Averil  had 
money.  Then  he  said  he'd  toss  us  for  our 
shares  in  old  man  Averil 's  Iceland  Develop- 
ment Company  flam,  an'  try  to  get  the  price 
[211] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

of  a  dinner  out  of  Averil  with  'em.  Reingold 
an'  me  we  had  a  share  each.  I  won  'em  first, 
and  then  'e  tossed  me  again  an'  won  'em  back 
himself.  Rum  thing,  too.  He  said  he  had  one 
share  before  we  tossed;  so  after  we  got  back 
to  the  office,  Reingold  'e  looks  out  the  original 
prospectus,  and  there  was  nothin'  about 
Dwyer  bein'  on  the  board — and  nobody  'ud 
ever  buy  shares  in  the  thing.  So  Reiny,  'e 
was  passin'  Dwyer's  office  this  mornin',  an' 
called  in  to  pull  his  leg  about  bein'  so  hard  up 
as  to  do  us  down  for  a  couple  of  shares  that 
wasn't  worth  the  paper  they  was  printed  on. 
And  s'help  me,  he  had  a  share  after  all — two 
shares.  He'd  got  two  more  of  the  original 
shares  in  his  desk,  and  showed  'em  to  Rein- 
gold." 

"Where  did  he  get  them  from!"  Constance 
asked,  with  duly  simulated  interest.  The 
man's  talk  was  going  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at 
the  other,  but  any  appearance  of  boredom  was 
forbidden. 

' '  Some  old  draper  chap  in  the  City.  I  for- 
get his  name.  Reingold  was  fair  surprised  at 
it,  I  tell  you.  'What  should  young  Dwyer  be 
gettin'  'old  of  them  shares  for?'  says  he. 
'Tossin'  us  was  all  right — if  'e  really  'ad  a 
share  of  'is  own  lyin'  idle.  But  to  go  an'  buy 
two,  an'  then  accidentally  to  meet  us  an'  toss 
for  two  more — an'  all  to  try  an'  get  young 
[212] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Averil  to  brass  up  four  quid — an'  Averil  'is 
pal,  an'  all!  Besides,  there  ain't  no  sense  to 
it.  There's  dozens  of  other  things  old  man 
Averil  touched.  This  pup  couldn't  square 
'em  all,  not  unless  'e  was  a  millionaire;  an' 
what  'e  should  want  meddlin'  with  this  par- 
ticular company  I  can't  see.  Rein  gold  can't 
make  it  out  neither.  But  they've  come  to  the 
wrong  shop  for  once.  Beiny's  lookin'  out  the 
holders  of  other  shares — I  reckon  we  can  buy 
a  good  whack  of  'em  for  next  to  nothin ' — and 
if  Mr.  Bloomin'  Pat  Dwyer  and  his  pal  Averil 
think  they  can  do  M.  &  B.,  they've  come  to  the 
wrong  shop. ' ' 

Emerging  from  a  reverie,  which  Laurence, 
Farrant,  and  the  urgent  necessity  for  a  new 
evening  cloak  shared  between  them,  the  last 
few  words  caught  and  arrested  Miss  Armi- 
tage's  ear.  No  observer  could  have  detected 
that  her  expression  meant  aught  but  admira- 
tion for  Mr.  Mortimer's  business  acumen. 

''I'm  sure  of  that,"  she  said  agreeably. 

Mortimer  swelled  pompously,  much  to  her 
concealed  distaste. 

"And  what  are  these  shares  he  was  trying 
to  sell?" 

"Sell!     There's  a  woman  all  over.     He 
wasn't  selling.    He  tossed  us  for  'em— an', 
as  I  tell  you,  Beiny's  found  out  Vs  been 
buyin '  elsewhere.    Looks  queer,  don 't  it  ? " 
[213] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

"Very,"  she  said,  in  total  ignorance  of 
what  he  was  talking  about.  "And  what  is  he 
buying  them  for  ? ' ' 

"Who  knows?  He  says  he  wants  'em  to 
pull  young  Averil's  leg  with — make  him  pay 
full  value  for  'em  rather  than  'ave  it  dragged 
up  in  conversation  that  'is  father  was  a 
swindler. ' ' 

"I  don't  think "  said  Constance  Armi- 

tage,  and  then  relapsed  into  silence.  She  did 
not  think  anything  about  it.  She  was  positive 
that  no  power  on  earth  could  get  money — or 
anything  else — out  of  Laurence  Averil  with- 
out his  own  good  will.  And  that  Pat  Dwyer 
should  be  trying  to  blackmail  him !  The  thing 
was  impossible. 

By  questioning,  she  got  the  whole  story  out 
of  Mortimer  again,  and  so  judiciously  did  she 
frame  her  inquiries  that  she  managed  to  con- 
vey the  impression  that  his  own  power  as  a 
raconteur  was  her  sole  reason  for  asking  for 
a  second  rendering  of  the  tale.  He  bloated  as 
he  repeated  it  in  what  he  considered  a  breezy, 
man-o  '-the-world  style,  and  poor  Constance— 
whose  name,  contrary  to  all  traditional  prece- 
dent, really  was  Armitage,  and  whose  dim 
girlhood  had  been  spent  among  kindly  folk  of 
the  middle  class — writhed  inwardly.  She  con- 
trolled herself  successfully,  however,  and  by 
her  merry  laughter  and  naive  comments  man- 
[214] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

aged  not  only  to  get  all  the  information  she 
needed,  but  also,  before  Mortimer  departed,  a 
promise  of  the  desired  evening  cloak.  So 
that,  when  the  door  had  closed  behind  him, 
her  action  in  stamping  her  foot  and  throwing 
a  book  violently  across  her  room  was  entirely 
unjustified. 

Her  feelings  relieved  by  this  timely  out- 
burst, she  sat  down  in  the  same  chair,  her  el- 
bows on  her  knees  and  her  pretty  chin  in  her 
hands,  and  thought  her  very  best.  What 
bearing  could  this  have  upon  Laurence's  ab- 
sence?— for  that  the  circumstances  were  in 
some  way  linked  together  she  felt  certain. 
Dwyer  buying  shares  in  a  worthless  company 
to  threaten  Laurence  with!  She  knew  both 
the  men  too  well  to  conceive  that  possible  for 
a  moment.  Perhaps  he  was  buying  them  as  a 
mere  speculation  on  his  own  initiative?  And 
yet,  Laurence  was  away  somewhere.  True, 
Dwyer  had  sworn  he  didn't  know  his  address, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  telling  the  truth.  But 
Laurence  away — Laurence's  father's  connec- 
tion with  the  company  when  it  was  floated— 
she  felt  sure  he  must  have  something  to  do 
with  the  business.  Her  tangled  thoughts, 
brought  to  a  knot  that  refused  to  unravel,  slid 
back  to  their  last  meeting — and  she  sat  up- 
right and  brought  her  hand  down  on  her  knee 
with  a  slap  of  decision. 

[215] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

What  was  it  he  had  got  so  excited  about 
when  he  was  talking  to  Farrant  ?  Some  silly 
piece  of  stone  that  he  had  nearly  smashed  her 
china  with.  She  remembered  his  keen  atten- 
tion to  Farrant 's  lengthy  geological  explana- 
tions, and  the  way  in  which  he  had  rushed  off 
down  her  stairs.  That  was  it !  That  was  it, 
for  certain ! 

Within  ten  minutes  a  telegraph  operator  in 
the  nearest  post-office  was  tap-tapping  a  mes- 
sage to  Farrant  that  ran:  "Bored  to  death 
come  and  take  me  out  to  dinner  C.  A." 

Farrant  was  delighted.  This  was  promo- 
tion indeed.  He  kissed  her  hand  prettily  on 
his  arrival,  and  murmured  compliments  on 
her  appearance  which  were  wholly  sincere, 
for  excitement  had  put  more  brightness  than 
usual  into  her  eyes  and  an  unwonted  color 
on  her  cheeks.  She  smiled  graciously,  and 
thanked  him  for  his  kindness  in  coming. 

"I  was  getting  lonely  and  depressed,"  she 
said.  "Being  out  of  an  engagement  so  long, 
you  know.  But  I  won't  bother  you  with  that, 
Fra — Mr.  Farrant.  And  now,  we  won 't  go  to 
a  big  place  this  evening.  You  shall  take  me  to 
some  dear  little  quiet  restaurant,  where  we 
can  chat  in  peace,  and  you  can  talk  to  me  and 
cheer  me  up." 

Farrant  glanced  at  himself  in  the  mirror, 
squaring  his  narrow  shoulders  and  straight- 
[216] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

ening  his  tie.  As  Constance  had  intended,  her 
little  slip  into  his  Christian  name  had  sent 
him  into  the  seventh  heaven;  and  when  she 
remembered  hulking,  sulky  Laurence,  she 
could  have  laughed  in  the  little  dandy's 
smirking  face.  However,  dandy  or  no,  he 
served  her  turn,  and  he  was  at  all  events  a 
gentlemanly  little  fellow,  a  point  that  counts 
with  every  woman  when  any  man  but  the  one 
man  of  her  choice  is  in  question.  From  him 
oaths  are  pet  sayings  and  kicks  caresses. 
From  other  men  courtesy  goes  far. 

They  went  to  a  little  Italian  restaurant  in 
Oxford  Street,  and,  once  ensconced  in  a  quiet 
corner,  Constance  soon  was  able  to  turn  the 
conversation  towards  Averil,  half  hinting  that 
his  brusque  brutality  of  late  had  incurred  her 
displeasure. 

Farrant,  delighted  and  encouraged  by  her 
acquiescence,  launched  out  into  a  diatribe  on 
Laurence's  vile  manners  and — as  he  put  it— 
the  rough  clumsiness  of  his  personal  appear- 
ance. 

4 'He  could  pull  you  in  pieces  with  his 
hands,"  Constance  meditated,  as  she  gazed  ;i< 
him  critically  from  under  her  drooping  eye- 
lids; but  all  she  said  was,  "Oh,  I  think  you're 
hard  on  him,  Mr.  Farrant.  Of  course  he 
hasn  't  had  your  advantages.  Living  in  town, 
don 't  you  know— and  travel. ' '  Farrant,  hav- 
[217] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

ing  once  visited  Liege  for  the  purpose  of  in- 
specting the  Belgian  coal  fields,  naturally 
preened  himself.  "I  used  to  like  him,"  she 
went  on.  "He  seemed  to  me  genuine — sin- 
cere, you  know.  But  of  late,  really,  he  seems 
so  rough.  You  noticed  his  manner  the  other 
afternoon?" 

' '  A  perfect  boor, ' '  Farrant  declared.  ' '  Per- 
sonally I  should  describe  him  as  of  a  low  type 
— animal,  you  know."  Laurence's  square, 
strongly  set  head  was  far  more  intellectual 
than  his  own,  but  perhaps  Farrant  had  in 
view  his  deep  chest  and  long  arms,  which  cer- 
tainly in  no  way  approached  the  ethereal. 

"He's  very  strange  sometimes,"  Constance 
assented  with  a  faint  tinge  of  sadness  in  her 
tone,  suggestive  of  a  rebuke  wrung  from  a 
deeply  charitable  nature.  "What  was  that 
nonsense  he  was  talking  the  other  day — about 
that  bit  of  stone  of  his  being  worth  more  than 
turquoise? — more  than  that  dear  pretty  tur- 
quoise you  gave  me?  See?"  She  held  it  up 
from  the  laces  in  which  it  had  been  hiding, 
and  flashed  a  look  at  him  that  made  the 
youth's  head  spin  with  gratification. 

"D'ye  like  it?  I'm  so  glad  I've  been  so 

fortunate What  was  it  he  was  saying, 

did  you  ask?    There!     There's  an  instance 

of  the  man's  intelligence.    One  would  think 

anyone  with  any  education  at  all  would  have 

[218] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

known  better  than  to  call  malachite  a  precious 
stone.  And  he  compared  it  with  turquoise! 
Of  course,  what  I  gave  you  was  only  matrix 
turquoise,"  he  added  modestly. 

''It's  perfectly  sweet,  whatever  you  call  it. 
I  like  these  pretty  streaks  in  it. ' ' 

"Exactly.  That's  the  matrix.  But  mala- 
chite!— it's  quite  common  stuff  relatively. 
One  would  be  inclined  to  call  it  merely  an  ex- 
pensive marble,  almost.  But  why  do  you 
ask?" 

"He — he  offered  to  have  that  little  piece 
cut  for  me,"  Constance  lied  promptly.  "He 
seemed  to  value  it  himself." 

"Polished,  you  mean,  not  cut.  The  man's 
merely  a  cheap  humbug,  my  dear  lady — if  you 
will  allow  me  to  speak  so  of  a  friend  of 
yours."  She  shook  her  head  slowly  as  one 
reluctant  to  acknowledge  an  unpleasant  truth. 
"Why,  the  stuff's  cheap  and  rubbishy.  Peo- 
ple use  it  quite  commonly  for  inlaying  with 
marble  for  such  things  as  clock  cases,  and  as 
jewelry  it  shows  atrocious  taste.  I  told  him 
so  at  your  rooms.  'It's  only  fit  for  Brumma- 
gem jewelry,'  I  said.  'Quite  Brummagem!' 
He  went  after  that,  if  you  remember."  A 
superior  smile  testified  to  the  pleasant 
memory  of  Laurence  vanquished  and  retir- 
ing. 

Constance  remembered  perfectly  well,  and 

[219] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

said  so.  The  light  from  her  fine  eyes  was 
such  as  that  with  which  a  Queen  of  Beauty 
might  have  rewarded  a  valiant  knight  of  olden 
time,  but  behind  the  admiring  glance  was 
vivid  curiosity.  Her  conversation  flowed 
smoothly,  but  question  after  question  rose  in 
her  busy  brain.  Why  had  Laurence  bolted  as 
he  did?  What  had  he  learned  from  this  little 
fool  of  a  man  that  he  should  fly  downstairs 
three  steps  at  a  time?  Why  had  he  gone 
away? — and  where?  Why  was  Pat  Dwyer 
buying  worthless  shares?  What  was  the 
name  of  the  company?  The  Iceland  some- 
thing or  other,  she  remembered. 

"And  where  does  malachite  come  from?" 
she  asked,  when  next  the  conversation  gave 
her  an  opening. 

"  Russia,  I  believe — and,  I  think,  Aus- 
tralia." 

"Is  there  any  in  Iceland?"  she  asked  inno- 
cently. 

"Hm — ha — I — ah — I  really  don't  know. 
There's  sulphur  there,  of  course,  as  you 
know."  She  didn't  know,  but  nodded  as  in- 
telligently as  if  she  did.  "If  there's  any  cop- 
per there — I'm  ashamed  to  say  I  know  little 
of  the  Iceland  deposits  beyond  the  fact  that 
they're  mainly  volcanic — but  if  there's  copper 
there,  there's  very  probably  malachite  as 
well.  But  I  don't  know." 
[220] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Perhaps  Laurence  had  gone  to  Iceland,  she 
reflected.  In  that  case  Dwyer's  statement 
that  he  was  ignorant  of  his  address  might  be 
true — at  least  it  wasn't  a  deliberate  lie  if  he 
was  at  sea.  And  despite  Pat's  manner,  a  lie 
she  had  half  believed  it  to  be. 

"How  far  away  is  Iceland?"  she  asked. 

"I  really  don't  know  the  number  of  miles. 
It's  about  a  week's  journey  to  get  there.  I 
knew  some  fellows  once  who  went  there  sal- 
mon fishing." 

A  week  to  get  there,  and  a  week  back.  That 
disposed  of  her  last  theory.  She  had  seen 
Laurence  the  Thursday  before,  and  next 
Thursday  he  had  an  appointment  with  Dwyer. 
Oh,  bother  it  all!  she  couldn't  think  with  this 
little  idiot  talking,  talking,  talking — and  ex- 
pecting to  be  answered  all  the  time.  So  she 
shelved  the  whole  matter  for  reference  in 
some  remote  recess  of  her  brain,  and  devoted 
herself  to  being  as  pleasant  as  possible  to  the 
man  before  her. 

She  bade  him  farewell  at  the  foot  of  her 
stairs,  thanking  him  profusely  for  his  kind- 
ness. "Such  a  pleasant  evening,"  she  de- 
clared. "I  feel  quite  another  woman.  I  was 
so  depressed  before  you  came.  Good-by, 
dear  Mr.  Farrant — well,  Frank,  then.  Come 
and  see  me  next  Monday."  Her  hand  lin- 
gered in  his  long  enough  to  send  the  youth 
[221] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

home  in  a  mood  of  jaunty  confidence  in  the 
invincibility  of  his  manly  charms. 

To  induce  sleep  she  drank  a  glass  of  weak 
whisky  and  water  and  smoked  a  cigarette  be- 
fore going  to  bed ;  but  all  through  her  dreams 
Laurence  bore  great  masses  of  malachite  on 
his  shoulders  to  build  a  mighty  green  palace, 
and  when  it  was  finished  he  knelt  at  her  feet 
with  a  sneering  laugh  on  his  face  and  told  her 
it  was  for  her.  Whereupon  she  lifted  him  by 
the  hand  and  led  him  towards  it ;  but  just  as 
they  reached  the  door  it  vanished  into  thin 
air,  and  all  that  was  left  was  her  friend  Lucy, 
who  was  crying  and  saying,  "Men  are  beasts, 
Con.  I  really  did  want  a  bit  of  that  stuff  to 
wear  in  an  earring." 


[222] 


CHAPTEK  XVII 


ON  the  following  Friday  Laurence  walked  to 
the  station  with  Marion  Stewart,  and  then, 
presuming  on  three  days  of  irreproachable 
behavior,  petitioned  to  be  allowed  to  lunch 
with  her  again.  "I've  business  in  the  City," 
he  said.  "At  least " 

Her  finger  went  up  warningly,  but  she 
laughed  cheerfully  nevertheless. 

1 ' The  truth, "  she  said.    "Please. " 

"At  least — I  really  do  want  to  have  lunch 
with  you,"  he  declared.  "You  called  it  a 
business  transaction  last  week  yourself." 

"It's  a  stretching  of  the  bond,"  she  said 
slowly.  "Are  you  sure  you  quite  understand 
how  I  feel?" 

"Positive.  You  think  I'm  improving 
rapidly,"  Laurence  said  impudently.  "I  be- 
have as  prettily  as — as  a  tailor's  dummy. 
And  you  picture  me  in  future  going  back  to 
steady  work  and  writing  you  once  a  week, 
thanking  you  for  putting  me  on  the  right 
path,  and  giving  you  interesting  sketchy  let- 
ters about  a  northern  fishing  port.  Isn't  that 
sot" 

It  was  so  exact  a  description  of  her  own 

[223] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

thoughts  that  she  flushed  in  spite  of  her 
laughter. 

"You — you  really  are  queer,"  she  said. 
"Yes.  You  may  come  with  me  to  lunch  to- 
day, if  only  as  a  reward  for  your  cuteness. 
D'you  know — I — I  don't  believe  you're  half 
as  big  a  silly  as  you  look." 

Laurence  shouted  like  a  schoolboy,  but  soon 
fell  silent.  His  time  was  coming — the  time 
when  the  brown  eyes  behind  their  long  lashes 
should  look  into  his  own  with  something  bet- 
ter than  curiosity  or  laughter  in  them. 
Nearly  a  week  now  of  fairly  constant  inter- 
course to  his  credit,  he  reflected,  and,  so  far, 
no  shadow  across  the  joyous  days  of  sunlight. 

His  conversation  and  the  new  conscious- 
ness that  he  was  a  trusted  friend  broke  up 
the  defensive  reserve  in  which  the  lonely  Eng- 
lishwoman must  perforce  travel,  and  for  once 
her  bi-weekly  ride  to  town  became  a  blithe 
holiday  jaunt.  They  got  out  at  Charing 
Cross,  and  he  was  allowed  to  accompany  her 
along  the  busy  Strand  as  far  as  Fleet  Street. 
They  dawdled,  making  a  long  half -hour  of  the 
promenade  by  looking  into  shop  windows  and 
watching  the  traffic,  and  Laurence  tentatively 
suggested  a  theater  for  the  evening;  but  find- 
ing her  demur  a  little,  postponed  the  visit  for 
another  more  favorable  occasion.  Promising 
to  meet  him  at  Kupert  Street  at  one,  she 
[224] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

nodded  an  adieu  and  went  about  her  business. 

Laurence  called  upon  Dwyer,  but  on  being 
informed  he  was  out,  retraced  his  steps.  At 
the  corner  of  Bedford  Street  he  decided  to 
have  a  drink,  and  went  to  the  Bodega  for  that 
purpose.  The  place,  as  usual,  was  blue  with 
tobacco  smoke  and  crowded  with  the  stranded 
flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  boards,  and  he  took 
his  glass  with  a  copy  of  the  Telegraph  to  a 
corner  for  quietness.  He  glanced  over  the 
news,  but  the  first  moment  his  eyes  rose  above 
the  top  of  the  paper  they  fell  on  Constance 
Armitage.  She  was  talking  listlessly  to  a 
gorgeous  member  of  the  provincial  man- 
ager tribe,  but  had  evidently  seen  him  before 
he  saw  her,  for  their  eyes  met  and  she  came 
over  to  him,  her  hand  extended. 

"My  dear  Lucifer,"  she  greeted  him. 
' '  Fancy  finding  you  here,  of  all  places  in  the 
world!" 

Laurence  stammered  something  about  hav- 
ing come  in  for  a  quiet  drink,  and  she  drew  a 
chair  towards  his  table  and  sat  down. 

"So  you've  returned  from  your  journey!" 
she  smiled. 

"Haven't  been  on  any  journey,"  Laurence 
averred. 

"No?  Then  where  on  earth  have  you  been 
keeping  yourself?" 

"I  haven't  been  out  of  London." 
[225] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

"Then  I  think  you're  very  horrid  not  to 
have  come  to  see  me  all  this  long  week.  Do 
you  know,  I  actually  went  to  call  on  you  last 
Monday. ' ' 


"Yes?  I— I've  left  New  Cavendish 
Street,"  Laurence  said  lamely. 

"  So  I  found.    Where  are  you  staying  ? ' ' 

"In  the  suburbs." 

"Oh!  Of  course,  if  you  don't  want  me  to 

know  where "  She  paused.  Laurence 

preserved  a  stony  silence. 

"You're  a  very  mysterious  person  of  late,'* 
[226] 


she  ventured,  as  a  re-opening.  "  Fancy  not 
letting  Mr.  Dwyer  know  your  address, 
even. ' ' 

"You  called  there,  didn't  you!" 

"Yes.  Have  you  seen  him?  He  told  me 
you  had  an  appointment  with  him  yesterday. 
Has  he  succeeded  in  buying  all  those  shares 
you  want?" 

"What  shares?"  demanded  Laurence, 
aghast. 

"Why,  the  Iceland — Development — some- 
thing— aren't  they  called?"  She  trickled  out 
her  little  knowledge  in  a  series  of  hesitating 
pauses,  and  seeing  the  lively  anxiety  in  his 
eyes,  flashed  a  knowing  smile  at  him  and 
drove  the  bolt  home.  * '  You  know,  where  the 
malachite  comes  from." 

Laurence  slowly  and  methodically  folded 
his  copy  of  the  Telegraph  in  four,  folded  it 
again  and  yet  again,  until  it  was  a  concise 
billet  and  he  could  fold  it  no  longer.  Then  he 
pressed  it  flat  upon  the  little  table  and  looked 
up. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about? 
he  demanded. 

"Malachite — isn't  it  some  coppery  sulphur 
stuff?  You  know.  That  little  stone  you 
showed  Mr.  Farrant  and  myself.  And  the 
shares  Pat  Dwyer  got  from  Messrs.  Some- 
body &  Eeingold  and  bought  from  that  old 
[227] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

draper  in  the  City.  I  forget  his  name,"  she 
added  naively. 

"When  did  you  see  Dwyer  last!'* 

"Yesterday.'* 

"What  time!M 

"Really,  how  you  cross-question  any- 
body!" She  drew  a  bow  at  a  venture. 
"About  this  time  yesterday  morning,  I  should 
think. ' '  For  once  she  missed  the  mark.  Lau- 
rence had  been  at  Dwyer 's  office  himself  half 
an  hour  later,  and  Pat  had  mentioned  her 
only  as  calling  the  Monday  before,  so  he  be- 
gan to  feel  himself  on  safer  ground. 

She  mistook  his  silence  for  consternation 
and  reached  out  a  gloved  hand  to  pat  him  on 
the  wrist.  "You're  like  all  big,  strong,  mas- 
terful men,  Lucifer,"  she  said.  "You  think 
we  women  are  such  silly,  thoughtless  things 
that  you  can  do  anything  with  us — and  you 
can,  too — your  type,  I  know."  Her  look 
frankly  showed  he  had  found  favor  in  her 
eyes,  and  he  fidgeted  uncomfortably.  "But 
we're  not  altogether  fools,  for  all  that.  We 
keep  our  eyes  open,  and  even  think  sometimes. 
Now,  see.  You  didn't  know  what  that  stuff 
was  till  you  came  to  my  rooms,  did  you! — 
When  young  Farrant  told  you,  I  mean.  You 
said  you  valued  it  more  than  turquoises — but 
that  was  because  it  had  a  sentimental  value, 
wasn't  it?  Then  he  told  you  it  had  a  market 
[228] 


LAURENCE        A  V  E  R  I  L 

value  as  well,  and  you  went  off  in  a  big  hurry 
to  find  out  what  it  was  worth,  or  perhaps  to 
buy  some  from  somebody  who  didn't  know. 
A  shareholder  in  the  Iceland  Company,  eh? 
And — and  you've  never  been  near  me  since," 
she  concluded  reproachfully. 

While  she  trusted  to  her  infallible  woman's 
instinct  she  hulled  him  through  and  through 
at  every  shot;  but  the  moment  she  started 
guessing  he  knew  it,  and  her  relapse  into 
sentiment  gave  him  breathing  space.  He 
made  no  answer,  only  pushing  his  hands 
deeply  into  his  pockets  and  regarding  her 
under  lowering  brows. 

Again  she  stretched  out  a  hand  towards 
him,  and  there  was  something  wistful  in  her 
glance  and  the  relaxing  corners  of  her  mouth. 

1  'Aren't  you  ever  coming  to  see  me  any 
more?"  she  asked. 

After  all,  she  was  a  woman,  he  reflected, 
and  his  new  love  for  another  of  her  sex  made 
his  manner  gentler  than  his  wont. 

"No,  little  lady,"  he  said,  kindly  enough. 
"Not  any  more.  I'll  send  you  something  in 
place  of  the  pair  of  shoes  I  spoiled  last  week, 
and  then  we  won't  see  any  more  of  each 
other." 

He  could  not  know  that  words  and  manner 
alike  were  cruelly  familiar  to  her,  and  her 
flash  into  quick  anger  startled  him. 
[229] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

"Curse  the  shoes!"  she  said  shamelessly. 

'  *  Do  you  think  I  care  for  the shoes  ?  You 

could  have  had  the  shoes  and  the  woman  who 
stood  in  them  for  the  bare  asking,  if  you  liked. 
Cowardly  beasts  you  men  are.  You  play  with 
me  for  a  month,  and  just  when  I  care  more 
about  you  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  off 
you  go — with  another  woman,  as  likely  as 
not."  She  read  the  truth  in  his  eyes.  "  It  is 
another  woman,  then!  But  I'll  be  even  with 
you.  I  know  more  than  you  think  about  that 
Iceland  business,  and  I'll  spoil  your  game. 
You  shan't  make  money  out  of  that  to  spend 
on  another  woman. "  In  a  towering  rage  she 
struck  the  table  with  her  clenched  hand  and 
rose  to  her  feet.  "I  hate  you!"  she  ex- 
claimed. ' '  Oh,  how  I  hate  you — you  devil ! ' ' 
and  before  Laurence  could  make  any  answer 
she  was  gone,  leaving  him  whistling  softly 
through  his  teeth  in  half-angry,  half-pitying 
preoccupation. 

"Tss — tss,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Poor 
little  beast  of  a  woman.  I  wonder  how  much 
she  knows.  This  means  trouble.  I  must 
hurry  Pat  up." 

Constance,  in  a  whirl  of  tempestuous  fury, 
was  half-way  to  Mortimer's  office  before  she 
remembered  that  visits  there  were  forbidden. 
Recalling  the  prohibition,  she  sought  the 
nearest  post-office  and  sent  him  an  express 
[230] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

letter.  ''News,"  she  wrote.  "Averil's  Ice- 
land Co.  Come  and  see  me  at  once. — C." 
Driving  straight  home,  she  raged  and  re- 
lented, and  raged  again  until  Mortimer  ar- 
rived, hot  and  hurried,  a  couple  of  hours  later. 

" What's  up?"  he  demanded. 

1  'What  have  you  done  about  that  Iceland 
company?"  she  returned. 

"Found  out  the  fool  the  sham  was  aimed  at. 
But  he 's  dead  nearly  two  years  ago.  He  died 
after  the  inquiry. ' ' 

"Who's  got  the  shares  now?" 

4  *  His  daughter.  But  we  shall  have  'em  in  a 
week." 

"Don't  you  be  too  sure  of  that.  What  are 
they  worth?" 

"Lord  knows.  There's  ten  thousand  in  de- 
bentures and  a  few  hundreds  ordinary  stock. 
We're  going  to  offer  her  forty  quid  for  the 
lot.  That  ought  to  buy  'em. ' ' 

"Forty  pounds  won't.  Oh,  you  fools!— 
you  fools !  Don 't  you  see  what  the  game  is  ? " 

"No,  I'm  dashed  if  I  do,"  said  Mortimer. 
1 '  What 's  up,  Connie  ?  What  bee  have  you  got 
in  your  bonnet  now?" 

"Bee!  Good  heavens  above !  Half  a  min- 
ute. What  do  I  get  out  of  this?" 

"What  do  you  get?  Ain't  you  a  bit  ahead 
of  the  game?  We  don't  know  there's  any- 
thing in  it  yet." 

[231] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

"I  do.  I  know  just  what's  in  it,  too,  for  a 
bet.  Look  here.  If  my  information's  right, 
do  I  get  half  profits?'* 

"Not  by  a  jugful,  you  don't.  Keep  quiet, 
now.  You've  shown  me  you  think  there's 
something  in  it,  and  I  shall  buy,  anyway,  now. 
If  I'm  had— well,  you'll  hear  of  it,  that's  all. 
If  you  like  to  tell  me  all  you  know,  I'll  give 
you  ten  per  cent,  on  what  we  make  out  of  it  if 
you  put  us  on  to  a  cert.  That's  a  hundred 
quid  out  of  every  thousand  we  clear — and 
thundering  good  commission,  too.  You  aren  't 
putting  any  money  in  it,  and  you  run  no 
risk. ' ' 

"Make  it  two  hundred  in  every  thousand." 

"Not  a  penny  more  than  I've  said.  Now 
then,  out  with  it — and  hurry  up,  for  I'm 
busy. ' ' 

Constance  hesitated — and  then  yielded. 

"Very  well,  then.  Here  you  are.  There's 
malachite  in  that  ground.  I  don't  know  how 
much  or  where  it  is,  but  young  Averil  knows 
— I  taxed  him  with  it  only  this  morning.  .  .  . 
Don't  be  a  fool,  Harry.  I  met  him  in  the 
Bodega,  the  beast.  And  Dwyer's  buying 
those  shares  for  him." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?" 

"Do  you  take  him  for  a  fool?  He's  a — 
never  mind  what  he  is.  I  hate  him  like 
poison,  if  you  want  to  know.  But  he 's  no  fool, 
[232] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

and  if  he's  after  those  shares  they're  worth 
having,  and  you'd  better  hurry  up  if  you're 
going  to  get  your  hands  on  them. ' ' 

Mortimer  was  at  the  door  by  this  time. 
* '  Remember,  a  hundred  out  of  every  thousand 
you  make,"  she  reminded  him. 

He  went  down  over  the  stairs  almost  as 
fast  as  Laurence  had  gone  on  a  similar  oc- 
casion the  week  before,  and  before  the  sound 
of  his  flying  feet  had  died  away,  poor  Con- 
stance, fille  de  joie  and  daughter  of  sorrow, 
was  lying  across  the  table,  her  head  on  her 
arms,  in  a  very  torrent  of  tears. 

Meanwhile,  Laurence,  seated  at  table  and 
looking  into  brown  eyes,  was  rapidly  recov- 
ering from  the  consternation  into  which  Con- 
stance Armitage's  threats  and  apparent 
knowledge  had  thrown  him.  The  memory  of 
the  lie  he  had  detected  her  in  came  as  balm 
to  his  soul.  Had  her  knowledge  been  of  any 
real  value  she  would  never  have  made  that 
slip.  It  was  certainly  disturbing  that  she 
should  have  known  of  the  tossing-for-shares 
incident;  but,  after  all,  the  matter  was  no 
secret,  and  on  grimly  considering  the  extent 
and  variety  of  her  acquaintance,  there  seemed 
nothing  improbable  in  her  hearing  the  tale 
told  as  a  joke.  As  to  the  malachite — well, 
she  must  have  been  listening  to  Farrant's 
[233] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

explanations  with  more  attention  than  he  had 
given  her  credit  for — and  the  rest  was  guess- 
work. At  the  worst,  Pat  had  the  start,  and 
had  as  good  as  promised  him  the  shares  by 
Monday.  No  good  worrying,  anyhow,  he  de- 
cided, and  so  set  about  enjoying  the  present 
hour  to  the  utmost. 

The  lunch  went  merrily,  and  with  its  every 
minute  of  time  Laurence  abased  himself  in 
spirit  more  and  more  deeply.  Oh  for  the 
days  to  come,  when  divinity  should  preside  at 
his  board  always,  and  this  happiness  together 
should  be  for  more  than  the  fleeting  hour! 
He  rejoiced  in  her  wit — for  witty  she  was; 
rejoiced  in  her  beauty — and  she  was  deli- 
cately lovely;  but  most  of  all  rejoiced  in  that 
he  had  never  known  before  in  womankind, 
her  brave  companionship,  whether  grave  or 
gay.  And  to  this  she  came  swiftly  with  him, 
for  his  sincerity — perhaps  even  his  first 
brutality — had  shorn  the  veil  of  reserve  that 
parts  man  and  maid  in  their  earlier  days  to- 
gether. The  keen,  sharp  pleasure  of  the  mo- 
ment planted  memory  clear,  and  through  the 
mists  of  later  years  often  brought  back  this 
hour  to  him — every  turn  of  her  graceful  head, 
every  flutter  of  her  hands,  the  light  and  pleas- 
ant room  framing  her  bright  eyes  and  happy 
face.  Fresh  from  the  sloven  atmosphere  of 
the  morning's  interlude  and  from  the  un- 
[234] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

bidden  favor  and  shallow  rage  of  another 
woman,  she  seemed  to  him  sexless  and  dainty 
as  a  flower. 

As  they  parted  on  the  pavement  outside  he 
put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  vainly  tried 
to  put  his  feelings  into  the  heavy  harness  of 
words.  "This  has  been  a  happy  hour  for 
me,"  he  said.  "I  shall  never  forget  this 
meal.  And — and — you  won't  make  the  mis- 
take of  thinking  that  I — that  I'm  the  tailor's 
dummy  we  spoke  of  this  morning,  will  you!" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  for  the  briefest 
moment.  "N-no,"  she  said.  "But,  Mr. 
Avery,  please  don't  go  on  making  sure — of 
what  will  only  disappoint  you  in  the  end." 

Her  mispronunciation  of  his  name  recalled 
to  him,  more  than  anything  else  could  have 
done,  the  danger  of  being  premature.  He 
took  his  hand  from  her.  "No,"  he  said 
gaily.  "I'm  not  asking  for  disappoint- 
ments. I  shall  see  you  this  evening?  Yes? 
Good-by,  then,  for  the  present." 

After  another  visit  to  Dwyer's  office,  where 
in  default  of  seeing  his  friend,  he  left  a  brief 
note  of  warning,  he  sought  the  river  for  silent 
communion  with  moving  waters.  A  golden 
evening  in  Her  company— the  landlady,  a 
merciful  soul  and  born  match-maker  after  her 
kind,  pleading  a  headache— followed  upon  an 
afternoon  during  which  Laurence  trod  rolling 
[235] 


LAURENCE        A  V  E  R  I  L 

clouds,  backwards  and  forwards,  along  the 
Embankment ;  and  sitting  by  her  side  in  the 
crowded  Exhibition  grounds,  he  would  have 
been  ready  to  swear  that  the  painted  canvas 
glories  of  Earl's  Court  excelled  in  matchless 
beauty  the  dawns  and  sunsets  of  all  wild  na- 
ture at  her  best. 


[236] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


A  MESSAGE  arrived  with  Laurence's  breakfast 
on  the  following  morning.  "Miss  Stewart's 
compliments,"  the  small  hand-maiden  re- 
peated, "an'  please,  sir,  will  you  go  out  with 
her  this  morning?  She'll  be  ready  at  ten 
o  'clock. ' ' 

Laurence  rushed  through  his  dressing,  be- 
stowing loving  care,  nevertheless,  upon  his 
shaving  and  linen,  and  was  in  the  entry  as  the 
clock  struck.  She  came  to  him  down  the 
stairs  hatted  and  gloved  and  altogether  ador- 
able, a  happy  light  in  her  eyes  and  a  color 
on  her  cheeks  he  had  never  seen  before.  She 
nodded  brightly.  "You  got  my  message, 
then?  I  want  to  see  you — to  ask  your  ad- 
vice. ' ' 

They  walked  down  North  End  Road  to- 
wards its  squalid  end,  and  turned  to  the  left. 
Their  way  led  them  past  the  cemetery,  and 
she  suggested  that  they  should  enter.  "It's 
quiet  there,"  she  said,  "and  I  want  a  long 
talk  with  you." 

Once  inside  the  gates:  "Isn't  it  strange?" 
she  continued.  "Only  a  week  ago  you  were 
telling  me  of  your  good  fortune,  and  now  my 
[237] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

luck's  turned  too.  Five  hundred  pounds — 
perhaps  more.  Look  at  that  first." 

She  handed  him  a  letter,  and  the  graves 
and  trees  and  grass  spun  round  and  round  in 
a  whirling  dance  of  death,  and  the  blue  sky 
and  sunlight  laughed  merrily  at  his  misery. 

For  the  letter  was  from  Dwyer,  and  con- 
tained his  own  offer  for  the  shares  in  the 
Iceland  Development  Company ! 

"My  God!"  he  said,  and  the  words  were 
wrung  from  him  in  torture.  He  leaned 
against  a  gray  box-tomb  close  by.  "My 
God !  And  it  was  you  all  the  time ! ' '  Press- 
ing one  foot  heavily  on  the  ground,  he  ham- 
mered the  turf  with  the  heel  of  the  other,  his 
foot  swinging  rigidly,  like  the  pendulum  of 
some  metronome  of  pain  keeping  time  with 
his  broken  sentences. 

She  beheld  him  in  consternation.  The 
man's  pain  was  so  intense  that  she  could  see 
his  forehead  turn  shiny  damp  in  the  sunlight, 
and  his  white  lips  show  the  red  marks  where 
he  had  bitten  them  to  keep  from  crying  but 
before  her  face.  His  utmost  being  had  gone 
body  and  soul  cheerily  to  greet  the  joyous  fu- 
ture and  hug  it  to  his  heart;  and,  behold! 
Dwyer 's  letter  had  whipped  all  happiness  out 
of  his  life  as  a  quick  breath  strips  fairy 
thistledown  from  its  bare  stem. 

Wild-eyed  and  dismayed,  he  looked  up  at 
[238] 


LAURENCE        A  V  E  R  I  L 

her.  "Are  you  ill?"  she  asked.  "Tell  me 
—tell  me.  What  is  it?" 

He  made  no  answer. 

"Won't  you  say?"  she  pleaded  gently,  as 
though  she  were  speaking  to  an  ailing  child. 
"Shall  I  fetch  a  doctor  or  any  help!  Oh, 
what  is  it  ?  Mr.  Avery,  tell  me ! " 

"  'Avery,'  too !"  He  began  to  laugh,  a  lit- 
tle hysterically.  "I'll  tell  you— in  a  minute. 
I'm  a  bit  upset,  that's  all." 

They  watched  each  other  in  silence  for  a 
while,  he  rigid  as  marble,  his  fingers  biting 
into  the  stone  ledge  behind  him  and  his  eyes 
on  hers:  she,  agitated,  fluttering  ever  so 
slightly. 

Then,  "Sit  down,"  he  said.  "There's  a 
seat.  Sit  down  and  wait  for  me.  I'm  going 
to  walk  to  the  end  of  this  path — shan't  go  out 
of  sight.  Only  I  want  to  think  a  minute — 
alone."  She  seated  herself,  and  without 
another  word  he  stood  erect  and  started 
down  the  central  alley  of  the  cemetery, 
his  shoulders  held  squarely  as  though 
bracing  against  and  resisting  lashes  of  a 
whip. 

A  dozen  steps  he  had  gone,  and  then  quick 
memory  coupled  the  moment  with  that  other, 
not  two  months  since,  when  in  just  such  black 
despair  he  had  set  out  on  another  walk  alone, 
and  as  he  had  then  turned  back  to  ask  the 
[239] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

name  of  Uthlid  rock,  so  he  turned  now  with 
another  question. 

"You  said  five  hundred,'*  he  said.  "This 
only  offers  two." 

She  held  out  another  letter.  He  took  it 
from  her  hand  mutely,  and  set  off  again, 
without  looking  at  it  or  at  her. 

Half-way  down  the  alley  he  took  it  from  its 
envelope  and  read  it.  It  was  from  Mortimer 
&  Beingold — offering  her  five  hundred  pounds 
for  the  shares  of  the  Iceland  Development 
Company  in  her  possession.  He  read  it 
again,  carefully  noting  every  word,  folded  it 
and  walked  on,  mad,  hopeless  desire — hope- 
less, hopeless — tearing  at  his  heart  at  every 
step. 

In  the  chaos  of  agony  that  beat  and  bruised 
him  coherent  thought  refused  to  rise.  Only 
the  memory  of  that  walk  across  the  Iceland 
wastes  that  had  brought  him  here — the  tomb- 
stones turned  to  lava  blocks  before  his  eyes, 
the  sunlight  faded  under  cold  icy  blasts,  the 
buildings  at  the  end  of  the  alley  took  the 
broken  shape  and  dark  color  of  Uthlid  rock, 
and  he  strode  on  in  white-hot  pain,  in  a  far, 
far  keener  agony  than  that  he  had  known  fwo 
months  before.  The  smaller  details  of  his 
torture  had  not  yet  come — the  heated  irons  to 
burn  the  body  on  the  rack — but  he  knew  that 
happiness  was  no  more,  that  laughter  was 
[240] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

dead,  and  that  his  life  henceforward  must  be 
gray  and  cold  as  the  northern  wildernesses, 
hard  and  useless  as  the  infertile  lava  that 
covered  them,  unsettled  as  the  gale-swept 
seas.  All  gone;  all  hope,  all  love,  all  peace 
— and  Marion  herself  farther  than  them  all. 
He  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  She  had  left 
the  seat  he  had  indicated,  and  was  standing 
in  the  pathway,  following  him  with  her  eyes. 

Not  until  he  reached  the  end  of  the  central 
alley  did  any  sequence  of  thought  come  to 
him,  and  then  like  a  flash  he  saw  his  duty, 
clearly  as  though  a  shaft  of  light  had  flashed 
down  through  the  darkness  engulfing  his  wild 
and  anguished  soul. 

For  her  sake  he  must  strangle  his  hopes, 
shatter  all  dreams  of  the  happy  future,  and 
return  to  pitiless  servitude.  He  must  say 
good-by  to  her  here,— "  And  a  nice,  appro- 
priate place  to  do  it  in,"  he  said  aloud,  as  he 
looked  around  at  the  gravestones,  each  with 
its  story  of  life  and  love  ended  and  forgot- 
ten. A  fortnight's  active  work  to  do  on  her 
behalf— a  wire  to  send  at  its  conclusion— 
and  then,  a  life  dragged  out  to  its  end  in  the 
old  misery — now  more  utterly  hopeless  than 
ever.  The  wire  must  come  through  someone 
else— Pat  Dwyer  would  do.  He  could  not  ap- 
pear himself.  She  would  think  he  was  doing 
it  to  curry  favor  with  her,  and  would  pity 
[241] 


The     CO  INI  ING    BACK    of 

him — and  if  she  did,  he  would  go  raging  mad 
and  do  murder.  He  must  break  with  her 
now.  No  difficulty  about  that,  when  she  knew 
who  he  was  and  what  his  father  had  done  for 
hers.  Farewells  once  over,  as  brutally  as 
need  be,  and  then  away  to  Leith  again — and 
farther — as  fast  as  rail  and  boat  would  carry 
him.  And  though  his  heart  was  breaking  and 
his  life  for  evermore  long  pain,  all  must  be 
done  cheerily — cheerily.  Emerson's  words — 
long  forgotten — came  to  his  tortured  mind: 
"  '  All  must  be  as  gay  as  the  song  of  a  canary 
— though  it  be  the  building  of  cities' — or  the 
sacrifice  of  a  life's  happiness,"  he  quoted 
bitterly,  and  returned  to  her  with  a  firm  step 
and  smiling  eyes. 

* '  That 's  queer, ' '  he  said.  * '  A  touch  of  sun, 
I  expect.  Do  you  know,  just  as  you  were 
speaking,  the  cemetery  fairly  spun  round. 
I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  saying. 

"Now  about  these  letters.  You've  asked 
me  for  advice,  and  I'm  going  to  give  it  to 
you,  and  you  must  abide  by  it  strictly.  Do 
you  understand?  Abide  by  it  to  the  letter. 
You  must.  Say  you  will." 

Marion  looked  up  at  him  from  under  level 
brows.  '  *  But  this — is  this  an  order  ? ' ' 

"An  order — yes.  You  must  obey.  I  know 
something  of — of  Iceland,  and  these  two  of- 
fers convince  me  there's — there's  something 
[242] 


LAURENCE        AV  E  R  I  L 

going  on  which  had  better  be  looked  into. 
You  are  not  to  sell  yet  on  any  account.  I'll 
go  up  west  to  see  Mr.  Dwyer,  of  Dwyer  & 
Tyrrell,  at  once,  and  you  will  take  him  as 
your  adviser  in  this  matter.  I — I've  got  to 
leave  early  next  week — hadn't  a  chance  to  tell 
you  before — only  heard  from  Leith  this 
morning.  Dwyer 's  a  good  fellow — a  sterling 
good  chap.  I  know  him  well.  We've  been 
friends  for  years — and  if  you've  any  doubts 
about  him  you  can  get  references  from  any 
reputable  firm  you  please.  At  present  you'll 
stick  fast  to  the  shares,  at  least  for  about  a 
fortnight.  Then  you  must  abide  by  Dwyer 's 
instructions.  You  couldn't  be  in  better 
hands. ' ' 

"But  he's  made  me  an  offer  himself." 

"Exactly.  But  he's  outbidden,  so  his  offer 
don't  count.  You'll  find  he'll— I'm  pretty 
well  sure  he'll  withdraw  it  when  he  hears 
that.  Now,  do  you  understand  exactly  what 
you  are  to  do?" 

"I  am  not  to  sell  for  a  fortnight.  I  am  to 
call  on  Mr.  Dwyer  as  a  client.  And  I  am  to 
take  his  advice  as  to  the  disposal  of  tin- 
shares. ' '  She  ticked  off  each  item  on  a  finger. 
"Is  that  right?" 

"Perfectly  right.  And  now  I  must  go. 
You've  had  my  advice — that's  what  I  came 
for,  wasn't  it?— and  now,  once  more,  remem- 
[243] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

ber  you  must  do  exactly  as  I've  told  you. 
Promise." 

Carried  away  by  the  energy  and  authority 
in  his  voice,  ' '  I  promise, ' '  she  said. 

"Then  good-by."  Out  went  his  hand. 
"You  won't  think  me  rude,  leaving  you  like 
this,  will  you  ?  I  'm  really  in  an  awful  hurry, 
only  as  you  wanted  my  advice  I  wouldn't  tell 
you  so  before.  Nice  of  me,  wasn't  it!  Good- 
by." 

Their  hands  met — their  eyes.  "Good-by," 
she  said.  "Shall  I  see  you  this  evening?" 

"No.  There's  something  I  ought  to  tell 
you.  You  won't  want  to  see  me  again  when 
you  know  it.  My  name  isn't  Avery;  it's 
Averil — and  I  am  the  son  of  the  man  who 
ruined  your  father."  He  smiled  at  her  as 
coolly  as  though  he  had  just  informed  her 
that  it  was  a  fine  day,  then  resolutely  turned 
his  back  on  happiness  and  strode  back  to 
Baron's  Court  Road. 

He  flung  his  things  into  his  boxes  anyhow, 
locked  them,  and  was  on  the  station  platform 
within  half  an  hour  from  the  moment  he  left 
her.  Reaching  Chancery  Lane  before  mid- 
day, he  burst  into  Dwyer's  office  sows  cere- 
monie. 

"Hullo!"  Dwyer  cried.  "Didn't  think  I 
was  to  see  you  before  Monday." 

"You're  luckier  than  your  deserts,  then, 
[244] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

for  here  I  am.    I've  come  to  tell  you  to  with- 
draw my  offer  for  those  shares." 

"Lord! — what  next?"  Dwyer  exclaimed, 
with  heat.  "You're  a  day  behind  the  fair, 
my  sweet  and  steady  client.  I  made  the  offer 
yesterday,  and  the  acceptance  is  probably 
posted  by  this  time." 

"No,  it  isn't.  At  least — I  mean,  I  don't 
expect  it  is.  Anyhow,  you  can  wire  with- 
drawing. ' ' 

"Wire  skittles!  You're  a  feeding  diet, 
Laurence  Averil.  I'll  remind  you  that  this  is 
a  business  office,  and  I'm  a  business  man,  and 
I  don't  like  these  tomfool  tricks.  If  you 
really  mean  withdrawing,  I'll  give  you  our 
client's  name  and  address,  and  you  can  go 
and  do  your  dirty  work  yourself — and  I  wash 
my  hands  of  you  and  your  affairs  hencefor- 
ward. You're  the  middle  and  two  ends  of  an 
infernal  nuisance,  and  I'm  about  sick  of  you 
and  your  vagaries." 

"Keep  your  hair  on.  I'll  give  you  a  bit 
of  news,  since  you  seem  inclined  to  foam  at 
the  mouth.  You  needn't  bother  to  withdraw 
unless  you  like.  You're  outbidden.  Morti- 
mer &  Beingold  have  offered  five  hundred  in 
place  of  our  two." 

"Whew!  How  did  you  find  that  out? 
What  the  deuce  is  up!  What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

[245] 


The     COMING     BACK     o  / 

"Never  mind  how  I  found  it  out;  it's  so — 
and  if  you  want  to  know  what  I'm  going  to 
do,  I'll  tell  you,  Pat,  my  dear,  if  you'll  swear 
great  oaths  to  hold  your  tongue. ' ' 

"You're  a  client,  I  suppose.    Go  on." 

"I'm  going  to  Iceland  to  have  a  look  at  the 
ground.  There's  malachite  there.  That's 
what  I  was  after.  Miss  Stewart — I  know  her 
name,  you  see — will  call  upon  you  for  advice 
respecting  the  sale  of  her  shares  in  the  course 
of  a  day  or  two.  Tell  her  to  hang  on  to  'em 
like  grim  death  until  you  hear  from  me.  I'll 
wire  you  from  Leith  in  the  course  of  a  fort- 
night or  thereabouts,  and  you'll  advise  her 
accordingly.  And  you  will  take  most  par- 
ticular care  that  my  name  does  not  transpire. 
Savvy?" 

"What  are  you  doing  this  for!" 

"Spite,  old  dear.  I  owe  M.  &  R.  a  "trifle 
for  outbidding  me. ' ' 

"If  the  deal's  so  good  what's  the  sense  of 
telling  her  to  do  anything  but  hang  on  ? " 

"I  don't  know  how  much  of  the  stuff  there 
is.  See?  Here's  your  chance — that's  all 
you've  to  look  at.  A  client  applies  to  you  for 
advice.  Thanks  to  an  unselfish  friend  of 
yours,  you're  going  to  be  in  a  position  to  give 
advice  that  is  of  value,  whereby  shall  you  be 
mag-ni-fi-ed  greatly.  It's  nothing  to  you  if 
I've  an  ax  to  grind,  is  it?" 
[246] 


LAURENCE        AVE  R  I  L 

"Will  the  advice  be  of  value?" 

"If  you  follow  my  definite  instructions  it 
will  be  a  very  special  article  indeed.  And 
now  just  see  how  much  of  my  hundred's  left, 
and  give  me  a  check  for  the  balance.  I  re- 
sume rusticating  forthwith." 

"Tyrrell  knows  all  about  that.  There's 
nothing  but  the  rent  to  pay  out  of  it,  is 
there?"  He  left  the  room,  to  return  in  a  few 
minutes  with  a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand. 
"There  you  are,  Laurence.  Eighty  quid  left. 
You  see  I'm  starting  to  put  faith  in  you.  But 
how  on  earth  could  Reingold  have  jumped  to 
that  price  from  just  seeing  those  shares  in 
my  desk?  Old  man,  I'm  sorry." 

"Don't  you  worry.  You  didn't  give  the 
show  away,  Pat.  If  you  want  to  know,  I 
shrewdly  suspect  the  Fair  Constantia  has 
done  us.  As  to  those  four  or  six  shares 
you've  got — you  haven't  taken  for  'em,  by 
the  way,  those  you  did  pay  for — I'll  settle 
with  you  for  'em  when  I  get  back  to  Leith, 
and  if  the  advice  I  send  you  is  'Hold  on,' 
they're  to  be  offered  to  Miss  Stewart  at  par. 
If  it's  'Sell,'  chuck  'em  in  the  fire.  Good-by, 
Pat,  old  man.  It's  been  a  rum  sort  of  month, 
eh  ?  Good-by. ' '  He  fled,  leaving  Dwyer,  w'ild 
with  surprise,  calling  to  him  to  stay  and  ex- 
plain— explain  everything. 

At  Trafalgar  Square  he  bought  three  postal 
[247] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

orders  for  twenty  shillings  each  and  sent 
them  to  Mrs.  Jardine  inclosed  in  a  letter  card. 
"Please  take  care  of  my  boxes  till  I  send  for 
them,"  he  asked  her,  then  registered  and 
posted  the  package,  and  went  out  into  the 
street,  his  month's  folly  definitely  closed,  fin- 
ished, and  dead. 

The  blank  afternoon  lay  before  him.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  until  the  departure  of  the 
night  mail  for  the  north.  "What  shall  it 
be?"  he  asked  himself.  "Moon  around  and 
visit  the  scene  of  past  glories?  Lunch  at 
Rupert  Street,  and  get  softly  sentimental 
about  at?  'Fraid  I'm  not  up  to  that  yet. 
Better  get  drunk.  Yes,  that's  the  plan.  Get 
tight  enough  to  wish  myself  back  at  sea  again 
— I've  got  to  go  there,  whether  I  want  to  or 
not.  Mustn't  get  run  in,  and  mustn't  forget 
that  my  bag's  at  Charing  Cross  cloakroom, 
but  short  of  that — 'Blithe  as  the  song  of  a 
canary.'  Good  old  Emerson!" 

He  drank,  now  steadily,  now  intermittently, 
until  evening,  but  did  not  fail  to  remember  his 
bag,  and  traveling  by  underground  to  King's 
Cross,  spent  the  night  at  being  whirled  back 
to  his  purgatory  at  Leith — a  purgatory  now 
utterly  and  irrevocably  stripped  of  any  hope 
of  paradise  to  follow. 

He  could  not  sleep.  The  whisky  he  had 
drunk  turned  to  bright-eyed  and  preternat- 
[248] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

urally  acute  wakefulness,  and  the  rattling  of 
the  train  forbade  even  a  moment's  relaxation 
from  his  pain.  As  he  sat  in  the  carriage  new 
tortures  came  one  by  one  to  burn  and  sear 
him.  Marion,  now  rich,  would  be  sought  in 
marriage.  Vivid  imagination,  strung  up  to 
concert  pitch  by  alcohol,  deprived  him  of  no 
one  single  detail.  How  did  the  society  notices 
begin?  "We  have  it  on  the  best  authority 
that  a  marriage  will  shortly  be  solemnized 
between  Miss  Marion  Stewart,  daughter  of 
the  late  Blank  Stewart,  Esq.,  of  Somerset- 
shire, and "  The  prospective  bride- 
groom's name  necessarily  was  wanting,  but 
the  thought  maddened  him  none  the  less  on 
that  account.  Then  would  follow  smug  jour- 
nalistic comments  on  Miss  Stewart's  ro- 
mantic story.  All  the  wretched  tale  of  his 
father's  downfall  must  inevitably  be  dragged 
up  again.  His  part,  too,  would  probably  leak 
out — the  son  chosen  by  fate  to  replace  the 
goods  the  father  stole.  No  newspaper  could 
resist  such  a  temptation  as  that.  He  won- 
dered where  he  would  be  when  he  read  it  or 
heard  of  it,  if  ever  he  heard  of  it  at  all,  and 
even  such  a  detail  as  the  picture  of  a  bundle 
of  papers  being  thrown  from  the  weekly 
steamer  into  his  dinghy  came  vividly  pro- 
phetic. Ah !  but  he  wouldn't  be  at  sea.  He'd 
promised  to  go  to  the  office  now.  But  that 
[249] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

was  impossible.  It  must  be  the  sea  again. 
God  send  Mm  a  speedy  drowning.  If  only 
he  hadn't  to  go  to  Iceland  he  could  drop  it  all 
now.  It  was  only  to  open  the  door,  make  one 
step  into  the  flying  darkness,  and  be  at  rest. 
Work  first,  though.  Once  let  him  get  that 
wire  dispatched,  and  then  there  were  a  hun- 
dred ways  of  leaving  it  all  behind. 

From  time  to  time  a  station  flashed  by  with 
a  roar  and  rattle  and  blur  of  lights,  breaking 
the  thread  of  his  sullen  musings,  but  always 
they  began  again  at  the  same  starting-point — 
Marion  herself.  Again  and  again  his  mind 
would  wander  into  the  unknown,  devising  her 
future — always  to  be  spent  with  another  man ; 
and  each  repetition  gave  him  new  and  more 
and  more  maddening  details — twisted  fresh 
thongs  of  thought  with  which  to  lash  his 
breaking  heart.  She  need  no  longer  wear 
winter  dresses  at  midsummer  now.  Her 
means  would  allow  her  to  dress  as  he  would 
have  wished  her  to.  Being  beyond  all  things 
fair,  and  rich  as  well,  she  would  have  many 
suitors,  no  one  of  them  such  a  hard  brute  as 
himself,  no  one  of  them  worshiping  her  so, 
but  men  who  still  retained  the  breeding  and 
education  he  had  lost — soft-handed  liars,  he 
thought  to  himself.  And  then,  her  marriage, 
and  a  happy  life  afterwards.  He  pictured 
her,  loved  and  loving,  a  serene-eyed  mother 
[250] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

of  children  at  five-and-thirty — in  the  prime 
of  her  married  life.  And  then,  just  as  he  had 
completely  forgotten  all  his  surroundings, 
just  as  he  felt  he  must  dash  his  tightly 
gripped  fist  through  the  window,  cutting  and 
tearing  his  hands  with  the  broken  glass  to 
relieve  this  other  unbearable  agony,  flash 
would  go  another  station  by.  At  the  start  he 
would  pull  himself  together  with  a  gasp, 
breathe  heavily  once  or  twice,  and  begin  turn- 
ing the  slow  wheel  of  thought  again,  im- 
potently  raging,  until  the  lights  and  noise  of 
another  station  broke  for  a  moment  the  un- 
ending succession  of  tortures. 

He  reached  Leith  about  seven  on  Sunday 
morning,  unshaven,  wild-eyed,  and  haggard. 
Leaving  his  bag  at  Anstruther's,  he  went  to 
Harper's  house  without  making  any  attempt 
at  a  toilet,  and  entered  its  door  for  the  first 
time  since  he  had  removed  to  the  lower  part 
of  the  town. 


[251] 


CHAPTER  XIX 


CLEMENT  HAKPEB  was  not  yet  up,  a  sleepy 
maid  informed  him,  but  she  would  announce 
his  arrival.  Meanwhile,  would  Mr.  Averil 
wait  in  the  dining-room  I  He  sat  before  the 
grate  containing  the  ashes  of  the  previous 
night's  fire,  feeling  cold,  lonely,  and  miser- 
able. Whisky  and  a  used  tumbler  stood  upon 
the  table  beside  a  full  ash-tray,  and  he  threw 
some  of  the  spirit  into  the  dirty  glass  and 
drank  it  neat  with  a  view  to  freshening  his 
wits.  When  Harper  came  down — his  dress- 
ing-gown was  testimony  to  the  urgency  of  the 
occasion — he  smelt  it  directly  and  looked  at 
Laurence  coldly  and  keenly. 

"It's  ower  early  for  drinking"  he  said 
sourly,  as  Laurence  rose.  "Ye 're  back 
sooner  than  I  expected  ye. ' '  Then,  on  sight- 
ing Laurence's  haggard  face,  "Mercy  on  us 
a'!  What's  wrang  wi'  ye,  mon?" 

"  Is  it  my  beard  1 ' '  Laurence  asked  stupidly, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  blue  chin. 

"That?  No.  I  see  ye've  taken  it  off — 
an'  ye  want  a  shave,  too — but  that's  not  it. 
Ye 're  a  wreck,  man  alive.  What  ha'  ye  been 
doing?" 

[252] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

1  'I  expect  I  do  look  cheap.  I  was  drunk 
last  night,  and  I  couldn't  sleep  in  the 
train, " 

Harper  made  a  gesture  of  anger. 

"An'  ye 're  nipping  now,  first  thing  in  the 
morning!  Ye  fool!  Ye  weary  me.  What 
do  ye  want?" 

"I  want  to  borrow  a  trawler,  Mr.  Harper," 
Laurence  began,  humbly  enough. 

"For  why?" 

' '  I  want  to  go  to  Iceland  and  back  as  quickly 
as  ever  I  can.  I  want  to  get  there  before 
the  Wednesday  boat." 

"Why  don't  ye  ask  to  borrow  the  whole 
fleet?  Ye've  enough  cursed  impudence." 

"It's  not  impudence — I  don't  mean  it  to 
be,  at  least.  It's  very  important.  I'll 
pay  for  crew  and  coal  and  the  use  of  the 
boat." 

"I'll  see  ye  do — if  I  let  ye  have  her.  But, 
first  of  all,  I  want  to  know  the  meaning  of 
this  wild-goose  chase." 

"I  can't  tell  you,  Mr.  Harper,"  Laurence 
said.  He  felt  disheartened  and  unhappy. 
Full  of  the  importance  of  his  mission,  and 
set  upon  its  fulfillment  as  he  was,  he  Had 
never  anticipated  any  opposition  here.  Yet. 
now  Harper  seemed  none  too  ready  to  oblige 
him,  and  without  his  aid  he  would  be  reduced 
to  going  by  the  passenger  boat.  That  meant 
[253] 


The    COMING     BACK     of 

three  days '  delay,  and,  stupefied  by  drink  and 
sleeplessness  as  he  was,  a  fear  that  Mortimer 
&  Reingold  might  send  a  representative  by 
the  same  boat  seemed  little  less  than  cer- 
tainty. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  he  repeated.  "It's  not 
my  business,  Mr.  Harper.  I  must  have  the 
boat." 

1  'If  it's  none  of  your  business,  I'll  not  aid 
you  in  meddling  with  other  people's,"  Harper 
said.  "Ye '11  get  no  boat  from  me.  Ye 're 
daft,  man.  Comin'  here  at  this  hour  o'  the 
morning  to  rout  me  out  of  my  bed  to  borrow 
a  trawler  as  cool  as  if  ye  were  askin'  for  a 
light  for  your  pipe!  And  then  ye  can't  tell 
me  why  ye  want  it.  Ye 're  drunk  now,  ye 
wastrel  fool!  I'm  weary  o'  ye,  Laurence 
Averil.  I've  done  my  best  for  ye.  I've  found 
ye  a  living  for  two  years  and  offered  ye  a 
better.  I  gave  ye  a  month  to  think  over  com- 
ing into  the  office,  and  after  five  weeks  ye 
come  back  drunk — drunk,  on  a  Sabbath  morn- 
ing— and  ask  to  borrow  a  trawler.  What 
next '11  ye  do?" 

"I'm  not  drunk,"  Laurence  said  steadily. 
"I've  only  had  one  drink — your  whisky — 
since  last  night.  I  want  to  borrow  a  trawler 
for  this  one  cruise.  I  shall  be  back  in  a  fort- 
night— and  that'll  be  within  the  seven  weeks 
I  asked  you  for — and  then  I'm  ready  to  come 
[254] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

to  the  office,  if  you're  still  inclined  to  have 
me  there." 

"I'm  none  so  sure  I  am.  Ye  look  as  if  ye'd 
been  drunk  for  a  week,  and  unless  ye  drop 
the  habits  o'  the  fleet  I've  little  use  for  ye. 


Now,  about  this  trawler.     Tell  me  why  ye 
want  it,  and  if  there's  any  reason  I  choose  to 
approve,  ye  shall  have  it.    Ye '11  pay  crew  and 
coal,  as  ye  said,  and  ye '11  pay  me  fifteen 
pounds  over  an'  above  for  the  use  of  the  boat. 
If  ye  won't  tell  me  why  ye  want  her,  ye 
won't  have  her — that's  all." 
1 1  All  right, ' '  Laurence  said.    ' '  Then  I  must 
[255] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

tell  you.    But  promise  to  hold  your  tongue. ' ' 

"I'll  promise  that;  but,  mind  ye,  I  make 
no  promise  of  letting  ye  have  the  boat.  Go 
on." 

"Do  you  remember  selling  those  farms  at 
Langholt  to  my  father?" 

"I  do.    Well?" 

"You  remember  when  Clitheroe  was  killed 
on  the  Westray?  I  went  ashore  to  bury  him, 
as  you  know,  and  while  I  was  waiting  there 
I  went  out  to  Uthlid  rock.  I  had  the  horrors 
on  me  that  day,  I  think.  I'd  been  drinking, 
and  the  boy's  death  upset  me. 

"Anyhow,  I  sat  down  under  the  rock  and 
had  a  smoke,  and — and  while  I  was  there  I 
thought  the  stone  lying  around  the  rock 
looked  to  be  queer  stuff,  and  I  kicked  off  a  bit 
to  bring  home." 

"Lava?" 

"No — nor  anything  like  lava.  There's  the 
piece  I  kicked  off. ' '  He  handed  it  to  Harper. 
"Is  that  lava? — you  ought  to  know." 

"It's  no  lava,  certainly.    It's ?" 

"Malachite.  That's  what  it  is,  if  you  want 
to  know.  I've  been  in  London  trying  to  buy 
the  shares  of  the  company.  But  the  tale's 
leaked  out  somehow,  and  the  price  has  got 
beyond  me.  It 's  not  high  now,  but  I  can't  pay 
it.  And  I  want  to  go  and  see  how  big  a  de- 
posit it  is  before  doing  anything  further.  As 
[256] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

the  story  has  got  out  of  my  hands  I  want  to 
get  away  before  anyone  can  go  on  the  weekly 
passenger  boat.  See!" 

"I  see.  Are  you  sure  the  stuff  is  mala- 
chite?" 

"Certain.  You  can  take  that  piece  to  an 
expert  if  you  like." 

"Who  is  the  present  owner  of  the  shares!" 

"A  woman.  She's — her  father  was  the  old 
chap  my  father  cheated." 

"And  ye  want  to  cheat  the  daughter? 
Father  and  son.  Ye '11  have  no  boat  o' 
mine. ' ' 

"Oh,  hell!"  Laurence  raged.  "Must  I  tell 
you  every  cursed  thing  I'm  trying  to  forget? 
Man  alive,  she's  the  world  to  me.  I'd  lie 
down  and  put  her  little  foot  on  my  throat.  I 
was  courting  her  all  I  knew  when  I  found 
this  business  out — that  she  was  the  owner  of 
the  land.  But  she  had  another  offer  for  the 
shares  by  the  same  post  as  mine— twice  as 
much,  too.  And  now  I'm  off  to  see  what  the 
find  is  worth.  If  it's  all  right,  I  shall  tell  her 
to  hold  on;  if  it's  wrong,  she  can  sell.  Now, 
do  you  see,  curse  you?" 

"I  see.  I'm  sorry,  Laurie,  lad.  Ye  shall 
have  the  Columba.  She's  the  fastest  boat  I 
have  in  harbor,  and  she  was  for  sea  to-mor- 
row, so  ye '11  find  her  ready,  coaled  an'— an' 
all.  Get  away  as  soon  as  ye  please." 
[257] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

"I  want  the  gear  out  of  her,"  Laurence 
said. 

'  ''As  ye  like.  I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you. 
She's  nigh  as  fast  loaded  as  she  is  light — and 
if  ye  take  out  her  gear  ye '11  need  ballast." 

1  'More  coal '11  do  that." 

"Ah!  Ye  mean  shoving  her  along  1 
Dinnae  start  a  boiler  tube.  'Mair  haste,  less 
speed,'  ye  know.  The  men '11  not  work  to- 
day. Ye  '11  start  at  midnight  getting  the  stuff 
out." 

"I  start  within  an  hour  from  now,"  Lau- 
rence said.  "The  crew '11  work  if  I  tell  'em. 
If  they  won't,  there'll  be  a  few  men  down 
there  that'll  take  their  places  for  me.  Give 
me  a  note  to  the  skipper,  Mr.  Harper,  and  I'll 
go  about  my  business.  I  want  another  drink 
to  buck  me  up,  and  then  I'm  off." 

While  Clement  Harper  wrote  he  drank 
again,  for  wretchedness  and  want  of  sleep 
were  taking  hold  on  him  once  more,  and 
within  the  hour  he  was  back  at  Anstruther  's. 

A  knot  of  men  were  standing  idling  at  the 
bottom  of  the  wynd  in  which  the  house  stood. 
He  passed  the  door,  and  went  down  to  them. 
Jock  Menzies  was  among  them,  with  three 
or  four  more  he  knew,  but  they  all  looked  at 
him  sullenly,  without  recognition. 

"Morning,"  he  said  shortly.  "Where's 
Guthrie?" 

[258] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Menzies  knew  his  voice,  and  looked  at  him 
with  surprise.  "It's  Averil  come  back 
again,"  he  said. 

* '  It  is.    Where 's  Guthrie — d  'ye  hear  ? ' ' 

"Which  Guthrie  dae  ye  want?"  one  of  the 
men  asked. 

Laurence  referred  to  the  envelope  in  his 
hand. 

"  *  A.  Guthrie, '  "  he  read  aloud.  *  *  Skipper 
of  the  Columba,"  he  added. 

"Alec.  He'll  be  at  home,  like  enow.  What 
brings  ye  back,  Averil?" 

"Work.    Where  does  Guthrie  live?" 

They  gave  him  long  and  contradictory  di- 
rections, Laurence  listening,  muddled  and 
bemused.  Unable  to  grasp  the  gist  of  what 
they  said,  he  turned  to  Menzies.  "Take  this 
note  to  him,  Big  Jock,"  he  commanded. 
"Bring  back  the  answer  to  me  at  Anstruth- 
er  's  within  half  an  hour.  I  'm  going  to  change 
my  clothes." 

Menzies  looked  up  sulkily.  "I'm  no'  your 
servant,  Laurence  Averil,"  he  said. 

Laurence  flew  at  him  with  an  oath  and 
struck  him  on  the  chest. 

"I've  been  away  too  long,  have  I?"  he 
roared.  "Not  my  servant,  eh?— you  dog. 
Do  as  I  tell  you,  or,  by  Heaven!  I'll  break 
your  jaw  first  and  drag  you  there  by  the 
beard  afterwards." 

[259] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

Menzies  departed  on  his  mission  without  a 
word,  and  Laurence  addressed  the  little  group 
of  men. 

''Any  of  you  on  the  Columba?"  he  asked. 

One  of  them  happened  to  be  a  member  of 
the  crew,  and  on  him  Laurence  straightly  laid 
commands. 

"The  trawl  and  gear's  to  come  out  o'  her 
before  night, ' '  he  said.  *  *  Get  a  move  on  you 
and  beat  up  the  crew,  and  send  'em  down  to 
the  wharf  side  to  start.  I  can 't  spare  time  to 
kick  all  of  you  to  your  duty,  so  if  any  man  re- 
fuses, take  the  next  that  offers.  I'll  give  a 
sovereign  to  the  man  that  takes  his  place. 
We  sail  to-night,  and  there's  a  matter  of  ten 
ton  of  extra  coal  to  be  put  on  board  when  the 
fishing  gear  comes  out.  Get  the  key  of  the 
coal  shed  from  the  storekeeper — tell  him  I 
said  it  was  Mr.  Harper's  orders.  Tell  the 
fireman  to  get  steam  up.  I'll  be  ashore  most 
of  the  day.  I've  work  to  do.  If  I  find  that 
the  coal  isn't  aboard  and  the  trawl  and  gear 
on  the  wharf  when  I  come  down  in  the  after- 
noon, some  of  you'll  curse  the  day  ye  first 
saw  your  mothers.  Now,  get  about  it.  If 
I'm  wanted  ye '11  find  me  at  Anstruther 's,  or 
they'll  know  where  I'm  gone." 

Menzies  was  back  within  the  half -hour,  and 
was  sent  to  the  bedroom  in  which  Laurence 
was  flinging  off  his  clothes,  replacing  them 
[260] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

with  those  he  was  accustomed  to  wear  at  sea. 

"Guthrie  says  he'll  no'  worrk  on  the  Sab- 
bath," he  announced.  "An'  the  Columba 
won't  sail  before  the  morrn." 

"You  go  back  to  him  and  tell  him  to  go  to 
the  deuce,"  Laurence  said  cheerfully.  "The 
Columba  sails  to-night,  and  if  he  hasn't 
turned  up  she'll  go  without  him.  I'll  be  skip- 
per, and  his  'blessed  Sawbath'  '11  have  lost 
him  a  fortnight's  work." 

All  through  the  day  Laurence  labored 
strenuously,  persuading  here,  pleading  or  or- 
dering there,  by  promises  or  oaths  getting 
stores  sent  down  to  the  wharf,  or  receiving 
and  answering  messages  sent  up  from  the 
boat.  The  town  was  shuttered  in  the  forbid- 
ding silence  of  a  Scottish  Sunday.  All  things 
seemed  to  conspire  to  delay  him,  and  in  the 
encountering  and  overcoming  of  obstacles  he 
almost  forgot  the  pain  at  his  heart.  At  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  drove  on  to  the 
wharfside  with  his  bag  and  a  small  but  heavy 
case,  and  shouted  to  one  of  the  crew  to  come 
and  aid  him  in  getting  it  aboard  the  boat. 
"Handle  that  tenderly,"  he  ordered.  "It's 
dynamite,  and  if  you  drop  it  you'll  go  where 
the  devil  wait's  you  quicker  than  you  want  to. 
Is  steam  up?" 

It  was,  and  by  five  o'clock  the  Columba 's 
bows  were  swinging  outwards  towards  the 
[261] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

waters  of  the  Firth,  her  churning  screw,  now 
ahead,  now  astern,  thrashing  farewell  to  the 
land. 

At  the  last  moment  the  men  broke  into  open 
mutiny.  "We've  nae  food  aboord,"  they 
cried,  and  one  of  the  bolder  spirits  jumped 
upon  the  bulwarks  with  a  view  to  springing 
towards  the  slowly  receding  wharf.  Laurence 
swung  him  on  to  the  deck  before  he  had  time 
to  leap.  "Then  you'll  starve,"  he  said 
grimly.  ' '  The  more  reason  to  make  her  move- 
We're  for  Iceland,  and  if  ye  shove  her  along 
you'll  get  a  bellyful  of  dried  fish  inside  of 
four  days. ' '  He  said  nothing  about  the  pack- 
ages of  stores  he  had  sent  on  board,  which  the 
men,  ignorant  of  their  nature,  had  placed  in 
his  cabin.  They  were  amply  sufficient  for  all 
hands,  but  all  his  harder  nature  was  revived 
by  his  return  to  the  old  vile  surroundings,  and 
the  dull  misery  in  which  his  soul  was  steeped 
called  aloud  for  the  relief  of  open  strife. 

The  scuffle  that  ensued  was  as  brutal  a 
rough-and-tumble  as  he  could  have  desired. 
Two  of  the  hands,  with  the  fear  of  a  voyage 
on  short  commons  before  them,  rushed  at  him 
together.  "  He 's  daft, "  they  cried.  "Averil's 
daft ! ' '  and,  crying  to  the  fireman  to  aid  them, 
they  attacked  him  savagely.  For  the  next 
five  minutes  Laurence's  mental  torture  stood 
off  from  him  under  the  stimulus  of  combat; 
[262] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

at  the  end  of  that  time  one  man  lay  under  the 
bulwarks  groaning;  another,  with  a  twisted 
ankle,  was  crawling  forward  on  hands  and 
knees ;  and  the  third,  uninjured,  had  seized  an 
iron  belaying  pin  and  was  standing  on  the 
defensive.  Laurence's  mouth  was  a  smudge 
of  blood,  one  of  his  eyes  was  closing  rapidly, 
and  a  blow  on  his  left  wrist  had  rendered  the 
hand  nearly  useless;  but  he  smiled  sweetly, 
for  all  his  disfigured  face,  and  cursed  the  men 
with  great  good  will. 

"Daft,  am  I?"  he  demanded.  "An'  I've 
forgotten  how  to  scrap,  too — eh?  You  get 
about  your  work,  you  swine.  You — at  the 
wheel — keep  her  a  point  more  east. 

"I've  brought  grub  aboard,  and  you'll  get 
your  share — though  you  don't  deserve  it. 
And  if  any  of  you  want  another  turn  up  with 
me,  you  know  how  to  get  it.  I'll  teach  you 
Laurence  AveriPs  come  back  to  the  fleet  no 
prettier  than  he  left  it." 

The  fireman  grinned,  replacing  the  belay- 
ing pin  in  its  rack.  "I've  heerd  o'  you  be- 
fore," he  said.  "Nae  wonder  Jock  Menzies 
is  sae  pretty  mannered  these  last  months," 
and  he  went  below  about  his  work.  Laurence 
laughed  back.  In  truth,  he  was  himself  sur- 
prised to  find  how  easily  the  old  life  came  to 
him  again.  In  the  old  days  he  had  known  no 
greater  wretchedness,  but  compared  to  this 
[263] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

new  hell  of  hopeless  desire  its  roughness- 
seemed  light,  its  brutality  a  kindly  counter- 
irritant  to  a  far  greater  pain.  He  walked 
the  deck,  now  getting  more  and  more  lively  as 
they  reached  open  water,  with  some  dim  feel- 
ing of  gratitude  in  his  heart  at  the  relief. 
The  hurry  of  departure  left  much  to  be  done, 
and  he  busied  himself  setting  the  men  at  one 
task  after  another  until  Fifeness  was  abeam, 
when,  laying  a  course  that  should  clear 
Buchan  Ness,  he  went  into  the  engine  room, 
told  the  engineer  to  spare  no  coal,  and  retired 
to  his  berth  to  seek  the  sleep  he  so  sorely 
needed. 


[264] 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE  next  day  dawned  fine  and  warm,  and  the 
men,  finding  Laurence's  stores  far  better 
in  quality  than  they  would  themselves  have 
bought,  were  in  high  good  will.  Moreover,  the 
trawl-gear  having  been  left  ashore,  there  was 
nothing  in  the  way  of  work  to  be  done  be- 
yond the  ordinary  ship's  duties;  and  though 
pay,  it  was  true,  seemed  problematical,  there 
being  no  catch  to  share,  Laurence's  answer  to 
their  inquiries  tended  to  allay  their  anxiety 
on  that  score. 

"You'll  get  four  pounds  apiece  for  the 
cruise, ' '  he  told  them,  when  asked.  '  *  If  we  do 
it  under  four  days  each  way  I'll  make  it  a 
pound  a  head  more.  If  we  take  longer — well, 
you'll  hear  of  it,  I  promise  you."  So,  telling 
off  a  deck  hand  to  aid  the  fireman  at  the  rag- 
ing furnaces,  all  hands  made  up  their  minds 
to  what  they — fresh  from  the  endless  labor 
of  the  fishing  voyages— were  ready  enough  to 
regard  as  a  pleasure  trip. 

They  drove  her  furiously.  Once — on  the 
second  day  out — the  engineer  reported  a  leaky 
standard- junction  forward  of  the  fire-box,  and 
[265] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

Laurence,  refusing  to  allow  the  speed  to  be 
reduced  by  a  single  revolution,  crammed  him- 
self down  into  the  stifling  space  next  the  bulk- 
head with  a  line  under  his  armpits,  and  plas- 
tered the  glowing  eye  of  light  with  some  filthy 
composition  recommended  by  the  engineer. 
He  was  more  dead  than  alive  when  he  was 
hauled  on  deck,  but  the  consciousness  that  the 
flaw  had  been  rectified  without  delaying  the 
voyage  did  more  to  aid  his  recovery  than  the 
fresh  air  itself,  though  a  great  girth  of  sail- 
cloth with  which  he  had,  stuffed  the  front  of 
Ms  clothes  was  brown  and  crisp  with  the  heat, 
and  the  toes  of  his  boots  were  positively 
charred.  The  weather  continued  fine,  as  fine 
a?  it  had  been  for  the  last  two  months,  and 
the  early  dawn  of  Thursday  morning  brought 
a  hammering  at  the  companion  door  leading 
to  his  cabin. 

"We've  earrnt  oor  extra  pund,"  a  voice 
cried.  "Porrtland's  ahead  on  the  starboard 
bow." 

"How  far?"  Laurence  demanded,  wide 
awake  at  the  word. 

"Aboot  nine  miles." 

"Then  change  her  course  a  couple  o'  points 
east.  I'll  be  on  deck  in  a  minute." 

He  dressed  hastily  and  ascended  the  stair, 
and  the  first  object  his  eye  fell  on  past  the 
bulwarks  was  the  dim  form  of  the  promon- 
[266] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

tory  he  remembered  so  well,  lying  like  a  low 
cloud  upon  the  northern  horizon. 

But  delays  awaited  him.  On  nearing  the 
shore  a  white  line  of  surf  on  the  beach,  the 
thunder  of  which  came  up  against  the  wind 
only  as  a  dim  murmur,  showed  that  the  favor- 
ing southerly  breeze  that  had  aided  them  the 
past  two  days  had  raised  a  sea  which  ren- 
dered landing  a  matter  of  difficulty,  if  not 
danger.  The  native  boats  were  hauled  up  out 
of  its  reach,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  life 
about  the  cottages.  Probably  the  inhabitants 
were  engaged  on  inland  pursuits  until  a  calm 
allowed  them  again  to  launch  their  boats. 

He  ordered  the  dinghy  overside,  neverthe- 
less, and  anchoring  the  trawler  a  mile  off 
shore,  went  with  two  men  to  inspect  the  state 
of  things.  The  fellows  at  the  oars  waxed 
fearful  and  uttered  dire  warnings,  but,  having 
given  explicit  directions,  Laurence  drove  the 
boat  headlong  on  shore.  As  she  touched  all 
three  men  leaped  out,  grasping  the  gunwales, 
and  though  the  next  roller  swept  them  off 
their  feet.  They  were  able,  sprawling  and 
tumbling,  to  run  the  boat  out  of  reach  of  tin- 
crested  smother  of  water  that  followed  it,  and 
sat  on  the  shingle  wet  through  and  gasping. 

They  were  about  to  begin  more  complaints, 
but  catching  Laurence's  eye,  refrained. 
1  'How  about  the  dynamite?"  one  asked. 
[267] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

4 1  Ye  '11  never  get  the  stuff  ashore  that  way 
— if  ye  want  it  ashore.  The  first  bump  we'll 
all  go  sky  high  together." 

Laurence  saw  reason  in  the  remark,  and 
despaired  again,  until  the  memory  of  the 
river  near  by,  the  Kirthafljot,  came  to  him. 
Leaving  the  men  by  the  boat  to  dry  their 
clothes  in  the  sun  as  best  they  were  able,  he 
walked  the  intervening  mile  across  the  beach 
to  its  mouth.  It  ran  over  the  shingle  in  a 
rapid  muddy  waterslide  about  two  feet  deep, 
pushing  back  the  surf  with  its  force.  Over 
its  lower  end  the  hungry  waves  advanced, 
roaring  again  and  again,  only  to  be  beaten 
back  in  confused  whirlpools  as  the  glacier- 
fed  flood,  now  in  summer  spate,  resumed  its 
resistless  rush.  A  worse  landing-place  could 
scarcely  be  conceived,  but  noting  that  if  cap- 
sizing could  be  avoided  it  was  not  impossible 
for  a  moment  to  steady  a  boat  in  the  current, 
Laurence  resolved  to  make  the  attempt. 

He  returned  to  the  men.  At  his  orders  they 
placed  their  wet  clothes  in  the  boat,  and, 
nearly  naked,  tried  to  run  her  out  again 
through  the  surf.  Three  times  they  were 
swept  back,  each  time  narrowly  escaping 
breaking  the  dinghy  to  matchwood,  and  when 
they  did  finally  get  past  the  hammering  break- 
ers the  boat  was  full  of  water,  and  all  three 
men  were  nearly  exhausted.  Laurence  alone 
[268] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

was  happy— happier  than  he  had  been  since 
the  start  of  the  voyage.  The  monotony  of  the 
last  three  days,  broken  only  by  the  episode  of 
the  fire-box,  had  nearly  sent  him  to  drink 
again.  Perhaps  nothing  but  the  necessity  of 
keeping  a  clear  head  had  saved  him ;  and  this 
wild  wet  toil  came  as  a  distraction  from  the 
endless  round  of  unhappy  meditation  that 
bade  fair  to  break  him  on  the  slow  wheel  of 
thought.  He  baled  the  boat  as  the  men  rowed 
back  to  the  trawler;  and  then,  taking  the 
dynamite,  parceled  in  cloth  and  tied  with 
four  long  dangling  rope  ends,  into  the  rock- 
ing dinghy,  they  rowed,  aided  by_  a  third 
hand,  back  towards  the  river's  mouth. 

"Waiting  for  a  wave  longer  than  the  rest, 
Laurence  rapped  out  a  quick  order,  and  the 
boat,  propelled  by  one  last  mighty  pull  at  the 
oars,  shot  over  its  crest  and  ran  perhaps 
twice  its  length  up  the  shallow  stream,  plow- 
ing into  the  furious  rush  of  water  with  a 
run  that  sent  the  fresh  ice-cold  spray  over 
them  in  sheets.  All  four  men  leaped  out, 
lifting  the  parcel  of  dynamite  by  the  rope 
ends  and  allowing  the  boat  to  slide  back  into 
the  surf.  The  force  of  the  stream,  well  over 
their  knees,  nearly  swept  them  off  their  feet ; 
the  dinghy,  caught  in  the  roar  of  a  following 
wave,  was  smashed  to  fragments  close  behind 
them;  but  at  Laurence's  shout  they  turned 
[269] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

and  staggered  to  the  bank  with  their  precious 
burden,  depositing  it  safely  on  the  beach  and 
shouting  like  boys  at  their  success. 

"But  t'  boat's  gone,  Averil,"  said  one  of 
them  at  length.  "How  will  we  get  off 
again?" 

"Time  enough  to  bother  about  that,"  he 
told  them.  "Here's  work  to  do  ashore  first. 
When  we've  done  we'll  swim — or  steal  an 
Icelander's  boat,"  he  added,  for  the  reckless 
joy  of  successful  struggle  was  in  his  veins. 

They  unpacked  the  dynamite,  repacking  it 
in  two  parcels,  each  slung  from  shoulder 
ropes ;  and  in  an  hour  Laurence  was  leading 
them  carefully  across  the  bare  wilderness, 
now  warm  with  summertime,  that  he  had 
traversed  in  those  cold  and  weary  hours  two 
months  before. 

It  took  the  little  party  with  their  dangerous 
load  two  hours  to  reach  Uthlid  rock.  The 
heat,  to  thickly  clad,  heavily  loaded  men,  was 
overpowering,  and  the  abundance  of  flies  sur- 
prised Laurence  greatly.  The  road  was 
rough,  too.  Once  past  the  silent  and  deserted 
settlement  it  was  necessary  to  scramble  up 
and  down  over  a  constant  succession  of  slip- 
pery lava  hummocks,  their  faces  and  edges 
hard  and  sharp  as  polished  steel;  and  the 
route  that  Laurence,  stupefied  with  drink  and 
misery,  had  traversed  without  notice  in  the 
[270] 


LAURENCE        A  V  E  R  I  L 

chill  of  early  spring,  proved  a  difficult  mat- 
ter for  a  body  of  men  loaded  with  dangerous 
explosives  to  negotiate  in  the  scorching  mid- 
day of  the  brief  northern  summer.  They 
were  done  up  and  exhausted,  their  nerves  un- 
strung by  occasional  slips  of  booted  feet  on 
the  bare  lava,  the  surface  of  which  gave  but 
insecure  foothold,  long  before  they  reached 
the  rock.  When  they  were  within  half  a  mile 
of  it,  Laurence  ordered  one  of  the  packages 
to  be  left,  and  the  four  men  together  carried 
the  other  to  the  foot  of  the  great  boulder. 
There  was  no  need  for  excavation,  even  had 
tools  for  the  purpose  been  at  hand.  The  poor 
mold  that  lay  between  the  broken  masses  of 
malachite  was  easily  removed  by  hand.  He 
distributed  the  heavy  cartridges  he  had 
brought  between  three  of  the  cavities,  and 
sent  the  men  back  to  the  other  package  while 
he  affixed  the  fuses.  Then  with  one  last 
glance  upwards  at  the  great  wall  of  hard  tufa 
that  centuries  of  weathering  had  barely 
smoothed,  he  set  light  to  them  and  ran  for 
dear  life. 

They  were  arranged  to  burn  for  ten  min- 
utes— and  Laurence  never  lived  a  longer  ten 
minutes  in  his  life.  The  ground  was  hard 
and  rough ;  his  sea-boots  of  a  sudden  seemed 
to  have  become  as  heavy  as  lead;  and  he 
scrambled  and  ran,  jumping  from  boulder  to 
[271] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

boulder  like  a  man  in  a  nightmare.  Once  he 
slipped,  and  imagining  a  twisted  ankle,  even 
before  he  touched  ground,  his  blood  ran  cold 
with  fear.  But  he  was  up  again  next  minute, 
and  threw  himself  down  by  the  waiting  men, 
sweating  and  gasping  for  breath,  a  full  min- 
ute before  the  charge  exploded. 

Then! — a  roar  that  seemed  to  shake  the 
very  ground,  and  that  echoed  from  hill  to 
hill,  progressing  faint  and  ever  fainter  to- 
wards the  great  glacier-topped  uplands  of 
the  interior.  A  mighty  and  beautiful  plume 
of  white  smoke  jetted  high  into  the  sunlight, 
and  wafted  inland  before  the  breeze  in  the 
direction  of  Asaa.  As  it  cleared  they  looked 
anxiously  at  the  rock,  expecting  to  see  no 
more  of  it;  but  as  the  white  cloud  around  it 
was  dispersed  by  the  southerly  wind,  a  stump 
full  half  its  original  height  slowly  emerged, 
still  standing. 

Without  waiting  a  moment,  Laurence  set 
off  towards  the  scene  of  his  labors,  telling 
the  men  to  remain  where  they  were.  On 
reaching  the  spot  he  found  the  hollow  had 
entirely  vanished,  its  lava  walls  having  been 
"blown  completely  away.  The  turf  and  mold 
that  had  formed  its  carpet  had  also  gone, 
leaving  a  pit  with  sides  and  bottom  of  dark 
gray  shale.  Over  the  spot  where  the  mala- 
chite had  been  an  enormous  wedge-shaped 
[272] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

slab  of  tufa,  detached  from  the  summit  of  the 
rock,  had  slid  down  when  the  base  of  the  rock 
had  been  destroyed,  and  all  traces  of  the 
malachite  were  hidden  completely. 

He  went  back  to  within  shouting  distance 
of  the  men,  and  called  to  them  to  bring  up 
the  remainder  of  the  dynamite,  sending  up  a 
fervent  prayer  that  the  quantity  he  had 
brought  would  be  sufficient  for  his  purpose. 
When  they  arrived  he  crawled  beneath  the 
great  wedge  and  found  a  vacant  space  under 
a  portion  of  the  rock  base  that  had  escaped 
destruction.  In  this  he  placed  his  cartridges, 
reflecting  that  he  would  have  to  take  care  to 
crawl  out  without  delay,  and  again  sending 
the  men  to  the  rear,  he  fitted  and  lighted  the 
last  of  the  fuses. 

Crawling  out  from  that  crack  was  the  most 
awful  ordeal  that  Laurence  Averil  had  ever 
undergone.  His  movements  were  perforce 
deliberate;  any  hurry,  any  change  from  the 
exact  direction  in  which  he  had  entered,  and 
he  might  stick  fast,  for  the  crack  between  the 
rocks  was  narrow  in  the  extreme.  In  places 
he  had  to  crawl  sideways,  his  weight  on  the 
hand  beneath  him,  and  there  was  not  room  to 
bend  his  knees  more  than  a  handsbreadth 
from  the  straight.  In  thought  he  suffered 
death  a  hundred  times,  as,  with  teeth  set  and 
slow  and  careful  motions,  he  edged  himself 
[273] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

towards  outer  air,  the  fuses  fizzing  merrily 
behind  him.  Once  in  the  open  he  ran  like  a 
deer,  reaching  safety  just  as  the  second  ex- 
plosion occurred;  and  not  until  the  smoke 
had  blown  completely  away  did  he  rise  to  a 
sitting  position,  his  breath  drawn  in  sobs  be- 
tween his  teeth,  to  look  at  its  work. 

This  time  no  trace  of  the  rock  remained. 
With  the  piled-up  lava  that  had  buttressed  it 
behind,  it  was  strewn  in  shattered  fragments 
over  a  circle  a  quarter  of  a  mile  across.  He 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  great  pit  the  explo- 
sions had  made  and  looked  over  its  naked  sur- 
face intently.  Then  he  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
looked  again,  and  then  descended  into  the 
hollow  to  carefully  scrutinize  every  portion  of 
its  interior. 

But  careful  scrutiny  only  told  him  again 
the  truth  he  had  learned  in  that  first  glance. 
An  unbroken  face  of  shale  met  his  view  on 
every  side  of  the  pit,  except  where  a  cavity 
had  become  filled  with  once  molten  lava,  and 
of  malachite  there  was  not  a  trace!  and  all 
his  dreams,  first  for  himself  and  then  for 
Marion,  had  vanished  into  thin  air — had 
drifted  away  into  nothingness  with  the  smoke 
of  the  two  explosions ! 

The  men,  advancing,  stood  upon  the  brink 
above  him,  regarding  the  destruction  with  as- 
tonishment. He  scrambled  up  to  them  to 
[274] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

search  among  the  debris  of  rock  for  a  frag- 
ment of  malachite.  Two  or  three  small  pieces 
lay  upon  the  lava,  and  he  picked  one  up  and 
showed  it  to  them. 

1  'See  that  green  stuff?"  he  said.  "That's 
what  I'm  looking  for.  Never  mind  any  bits 
lying  about  here.  Get  into  the  pit  and  see  if 
you  can  find  any  left  stuck  in  the  sides. 
There's  a  sovereign  for  the  man  who  sees  it 
first." 

They  searched  for  a  couple  of  hours,  Lau- 
rence going  carefully  over  the  ground  after 
them,  but  not  a  trace  of  malachite  was  visible, 
and  the  stratified  lines  of  the  shale  ran  in  un- 
broken regularity  all  round  the  excavation. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  he  rose  erect,  straight- 
ening his  back.  "All  right,"  he  said. 
"That'll  do.  We  need  waste  no  longer  time 
here.  Now  to  find  a  boat,"  and  the  four  men 
set  off  on  their  return  to  Langholt.  4 

The  inhabitants,  alarmed  at  the  explosions, 
had  returned  to  their  house,  and  two  of  the 
men  met  them  when  half-way  to  the  shore. 
Laurence  told  them  to  return,  saying  that  he 
wanted  a  boat.  When  they  understood  his 
Danish  they  shook  their  heads,  saying  that  the 
surf  was  too  high  for  one  to  be  launched,  but 
they  walked  back  to  the  beach  in  company 
with  the  party.  Once  there,  the  first  of  the 
boats  was  taken  by  force  and  thrown  into  the 
[275] 


LAURENCE        A  V  E  R  I  L 

breakers,  no  permission  being  asked  of  the 
owners,  and  Laurence,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
Icelanders'  cries,  grasped  one  man  by  the 
collar  and  flung  him  in  after  it.  The  boat, 
being  heavier  than  the  smashed  dinghy,  rode 
off  at  the  first  attempt,  the  men  hauling  the 
weeping  native  on  board  as  they  shipped  the 
oars.  At  the  trawler's  side  Laurence  gave 
him  a  sovereign,  leaving  him  to  beach  the  un- 
gainly looking  pram  as  best  he  might;  and 
once  aboard  he  gave  orders  to  get  under  way 
at  once,  only  going  below  to  change  his 
clothes  when  the  anchor  was  up  and  the  screw 
had  begun  to  revolve. 

When  he  came  on  deck  an  hour  later  Ice- 
land was  fading  away  to  the  northward,  and 
long  before  the  clear  gray  light  of  midnight 
had  briefly  replaced  the  summer  sun  it  was 
gone  from  sight — as  utterly  gone  as  his 
golden  dreams  of  but  two  short  weeks  before. 


[276] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


MARION  STEWART  stood  as  Laurence  had  left 
her,  dumb  with  surprise.  In  the  course  of  a 
single  forenoon  she  had  received  an  offer  that 
raised  her  to  what  she  considered  unheard-of 
affluence,  and  had  asked  Laurence  for  advice 
— more  as  an  excuse  to  tell  him  of  her  good 
fortune,  it  is  true,  than  because  she  desired 
any  advice  at  all.  He  had  told  her  to  refuse 
— refuse! — this  most  providential  of  offers; 
had  informed  her  he  was  the  son  of  the  man 
who  had  ruined  and  killed  her  own  father,- 
and  then  had  walked  off,  his  manner  as 
serenely  matter-of-course  as  though  such 
revelations  were  to  him  but  daily  events. 

As  he  had  anticipated,  her  surprise  gave 
way  to  slow  anger.  That  he,  the  son  of  that 
miscreant,  that  villain,  Herman  Averil,  had 
ever  dared  even  to  speak  to  her!  And  he 
had  kissed  her ! — against  her  will,  it  was  true, 
but  still,  kissed  her  he  certainly  had.  The 
offense  had  rankled  less  in  her  mind  this  last 
week — some  queer  feeling  that  was  not  all 
antipathy  had  blended  with  it — but  now  this 
bouleversement  of  everything  brought  back 
her  first  impression  of  his  hatefully  masterful 
[277] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

bearing,  and  she  rubbed  her  mouth,  half 
unconsciously,  with  the  back  of  her  little 
glove. 

How  dared  he  even  to  speak  to  her?  But 
perhaps  he  had  only  known  when  he  saw  her 
letters  that  Fate  had  so  linked  their  parents 
together.  Whether  he  knew  or  not,  he  was 
bad — bad  all  through — of  bad  stock.  No 
wonder  he  had  gone  away  as  he  had.  He 
dared  not  stay,  the  coward!  Oh  that  she 
could  tell  him  bitterly  what  she  felt  towards 
him  and  his  father!  Her  two  past  years  of 
strife  and  some  of  her  early  discouragements 
— the  strife  and  discouragements  that  lie 
about  the  lonely  and  pretty  woman's  path- 
came  to  her  mind,  and  she  paled  with  anger. 
Well  for  him  he  had  fled.  *  *  Coward,  coward, ' ' 
she  said — and,  in  her  heart,  knew  she  was  ly- 
ing. Well,  brute,  then.  Detestable,  hateful, 
and  vile  he  had  been,  even — even  if  he  wasn't 
afraid  of  things.  She  sat  down  and  thought 
it  all  over.  Could  he  have  known  anything 
of  the  circumstances  of  her  father's  case? 
She  thought  not,  but  reconsidering  the  fact  of 
his  friendship  with  Dwyer,  left  that  question 
for  the  time  unanswered.  In  any  case, 
Dwyer 's  offer  was  outbidden.  Laurence  had 
said  so  himself.  And  she  was  to  go  to  him 
for  advice.  She  decided  to  do  so  on  Monday. 
Meanwhile  she  would  get  a  map  of  Iceland 
[278] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

and  some  books  and  try  to  learn  something  of 
the  place.  She  remembered  it  was  sulphur 
her  father  had  anticipated  finding  there,  but, 
short  of  that,  she  remembered  little  of  the 
catastrophe  that  had  ended  his  days  and 
turned  her  adrift  to  shift  for  herself. 

She  walked  home  slowly,  to  find  Laurence 
had  gone,  and  after  the  excitement  of  the 
morning  the  day  dragged  wearily  and  un- 
eventfully. She  went  to  the  Exhibition  in  the 
evening,  but  returned  early.  Hating  him  as 
she  was  sure  she  did,  she  would  not  admit 
even  to  herself  that  his  absence  spoiled  her 
pleasure ;  but  although  her  good  fortune  was 
vividly  present  to  her  when  she  went  to  bed, 
some  unformed  feeling  within  her  dulled  its 
brightness.  Was  it  regret  that  he  had  gone! 
she  asked  herself.  No — a  thousand  times  no. 
How  could  she  possibly  regret  having  seen 
the  last  of  him  ?  She  fell  asleep  trying  to  find 
justly  opprobrious  terms  in  which  to  describe 
his  effrontery  and  wickedness. 

On  Monday  she  went  to  Dwyer  &  Tyrrell, 
to  be  received  with  the  respect  due  to  a  client 
with  thousands  of  broad  acres  beneath  IHT 
sway.  As  an  obsequious  clerk  ushered  her 
into  Dwyer 's  private  room,  she  compared  her 
reception  with  that  which  she  had  encoun- 
tered only  a  few  days  before  when  she  had 
called  for  Webster's  address,  and  the  altera- 
[279] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

tion  gave  her  warm  delight.  She  entered 
with  her  little  chin  up,  doing  her  best  to  seem 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  she  still  wore  her 
array  of  springtime,  and  her  haughty  de- 
meanor made  Pat  Dwyer  chuckle  inwardly. 
Laurence's  bare  admission  that  he  knew  her 
name,  coupled  with  his  instructions  before 
departure,  had  excited  his  curiosity.  Re- 
membering Constance  Armitage's  visit  and 
anxious  demand  for  his  address,  he  had  be- 
lieved her  to  be  the  source  of  his  knowledge 
of  Mortimer  &  Reingold's  offer,  and  of  the 
name  of  the  holder  of  the  shares ;  but  at  sight 
of  Marion 's  delicate,  cameo-like  face  and  slen- 
der figure,  he  began  to  understand  more 
clearly  how  things  stood.  ' '  Quixotic  ass, ' '  he 
said  to  himself,  and  turned  his  attention  to 
this  new  client. 

1  'Miss  Stewart?"  he  interrogated,  consult- 
ing the  card  she  had  sent  in. 

She  bowed. 

"You  have  called  about  our  offer  for  your 
holding  in  the  Iceland  Development  Com- 
pany!" 

"Not  altogether.  I've  received  a  higher 
offer  from  a  firm  of  stockbrokers — Messrs. 
Mortimer  &  Reingold — and  I  have  come  to 
you  for  advice  respecting  it.  Can  you  tell 
me  anything  about  the  firm?  Your  own  of- 
fer, being  outbidden,  I  presume  falls  to  the 
[280] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

ground.  A — an  acquaintance  of  mine,  a  Mr. 
Averil,  told  me  to  come  to  you." 

"Yes?"  All  Pat's  professional  manner 
was  needed  to  conceal  his  surprise.  Laurence 
had  sent  her  there  himself!  " Laurence 
Averil,  eh?  A  good — well,  he  is  a  good  chap 
at  bottom.  That's  true.  I've  known  him 
years.  We  were  at  Oxford  together.  Do 
you  know  him  well!" 

"He  is  an  acquaintance,"  she  repeated 
coldly.  "As  I  never  even  knew  he  had  been 
at  college  at  all,  you  can  see  I  know  very  lit- 
tle of  him.  May  I  ask  your  advice  respecting 
these  shares?" 

"Oh,  you  won't  sell  at  present,  of  course. 
I  think  I  am  at  liberty  to  tell  you  that — er — 
some  valuable  minerals  have  been  discovered 
on  the  ground.  The  fact  has  leaked  out,  some- 
how, and  consequently  there  is  every  proba- 
bility of  the  price  of  your  shares  rising 
higher,  so  that  your  proper  course  is  to  keep 
them  in  your  own  hands  at  present." 

*  *  Leaked  out  ?  How — who  made  the  discov- 
ery?" But  she  had  no  need  to  ask.  She 
knew. 

* '  That  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say. ' ' 

"And — has  Mr.  Averil  instructed  you  to 
withdraw  his  first  offer  for  the  shares?"  she 
hazarded. 

Pat  looked  at  her  keenly.    Laurence,  after 

[281] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

telling  him  his  name  was  not  to  transpire, 
had  bolted  without  explanations  and  left  him 
groping  in  the  dark. 

"What  offer!"  he  said  innocently. 

"This."  She  tapped  Dwyer's  own  letter 
with  an  accusing  finger.  "I — I  saw  Mr. 
Averil  on  Saturday,  and — and  I  understood 
the  offer  came  from  him." 

"Oh,  if  he  told  you   so "   said  Pat, 

trapped. 

She  jesuitically  congratulated  herself  on 
keeping  within  the  limits  of  strict  truth. 
"Did  he  instruct  you  to  withdraw?" 

"Yes.  It  wasn't  important  that  he  should 
do  so,  of  course.  The  other  offer  settled  that. 
I  rather  fancy  he  thought  it  would  clear  the 
way  for  us — our  advising  you,  you  know." 

"He's  returned  to  Leith,  I  believe?" 

Pat  nodded. 

"Thank  you.  That's  all  now,  I  think." 
She  rose  to  go.  "I  am  to  keep  the  shares 
until  you  instruct  me  to  sell.  Is  that  right?" 

"Quite  right."  He  rose  and  opened  the 
door  for  her.  "Good-morning." 

She  went  down  the  stairs  in  a  greater  rage 
with  Laurence  than  ever.  So  he  had  found 
this  stuff — whatever  it  was — and  had  come  to 
London  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  cheat- 
ing her  out  of  her  shares.  No  wonder  he  had 
been  so  upset  when  she  told  him  his  offer  was 
[282] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

insufficient — the  cheat !  And  when  his  wicked 
plans  had  been  frustrated,  he  had  run  away. 
He  was  a  coward,  too,  after  all.  With  a 
woman's  reasoning,  she  pushed  aside  the  few 
facts  that  interfered  with  her  theory.  True, 
he  had  reeled  and  shown  all  the  signs  of  agita- 
tion before  she  had  shown  him  the  second  let- 
ter, but  her  first  words  had  informed  him  the 
offer  was  five  hundred  pounds,  and  that  must 
have  told  him  his  own  efforts  were  fruitless. 
The  mean,  cowardly  cheat!  How  she  hated 
him ! — Yes,  she  really  did  hate  him  now.  On 
reflection,  only  one  doubt  came  to  assail  her. 
If  he  had  told  her  to  wait  a  few  days,  he 
could  have  made  a  larger  offer  than  five  hun- 
dred pounds  for  the  shares,  and,  acting  on  his 
advice,  she  would  probably  have  accepted  it. 
Why  hadn't  he  done  that?  she  wondered. 
She  must  beware.  Perhaps  he  intended  doing 
it  even  now.  Could  it  be  that  Dwyer  was  in 
collusion  with  him!  She  shook  her  head 
sagely,  suspecting  all  men,  and  reserved  to 
herself  the  right  to  accept  or  decline  Dwyer 's 
advice  when  it  was  forthcoming. 

Tuesday  morning  brought  another  letter 
from  yet  another  stockbroker.  It  was  incited 
by  Clement  Harper's  London  agent,  if  she 
had  but  known  it.  Clement  had  decided  that 
no  harm  could  come  and  much  good  might 
possibly  accrue  from  a  judicious  agitation 
[283] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

respecting  the  Iceland  shares,  and  the  barely 
worded  inquiry  as  to  the  terms  on  which  she 
would  part  with  ordinary  stock  was  the  direct 
result  of  his  action.  She  went  straight  to1  the 
office  from  which  the  inquiry  was  dated,  and 
was  able  to  discover  that  it  came  from  Leith. 
As  a  natural  result,  she  attributed  it  to  the 
evil  machinations  of  the  unspeakable  Lau- 
rence— who  at  that  moment  was  grilling  on  a 
fire-box,  like  a  later  incarnation  of  his  own 
patron  saint,  in  her  service — and  her  refusal 
to  state  terms  was  as  shortly  worded  as  po- 
liteness would  allow.  She  told  Dwyer  of  the 
letter,  however,  and  Pat  saw  that  the  inquiry 
was  discreetly  advertised  in  the  proper  chan- 
nels. When  it  came  to  Eeingold's  ears  he  fell 
into  a  profuse  state  of  perspiration. 

"  There 'th  thome  thing  in  that  tale  of 
your'th,  Harry,"  he  told  Mortimer. 
"  There  'th  more  of  'em  after  thothe  cuthed 
thareth  of  Averil'th.  Where 'th  that  girl'th 
letter?"  He  glanced  over  it  and  wrote  again 
to  Marion,  asking  her  to  state  her  own  price 
for  ordinary  shares. 

She  took  the  letter  to  Dwyer. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  advise  you,"  he 
said,  perplexed.  "Definite  offers  below  par 
of  course  you  should  refuse,  but  this  is  differ- 
ent. Will  you  allow  me  to  answer  it?" 

"What  shall  you  say?"  she  asked. 
[284] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

"I'll  ask  double  the  price  of  the  shares,"  he 
told  her.  " They '11  refuse  that,  but  it'll  show 
them  we're  not  ignorant  of  their  value.  Will 
that  do?" 

"I  am  in  your  hands,"  she  said,  and  Pat 
wrote  accordingly. 

Reingold  tore  his  hair  when  the  letter  ar- 
rived. ''Look  at  it!"  he  cried  to  his  partner. 
"  There  'th  that  blathted  Dwyer  at  it  again 
now.  Harry,  my  boy,  we're  out  of  thith. 
We've  been  done  by  that  pup.  To  think  we 
wath  directorth  of  the  company  a  fortnight 
ago!" 

Mortimer  looked  at  the  letter  stolidly. 

"We'll  buy,"  he  said,  mindful  of  Con- 
stance's advice.  "We'll  buy  the  ruddy  lot. 
Sixteen  hundred  quid !  and  we  could  have  got 
'em  for  the  asking.  It's  heart-breaking — but 
six  per  cent,  on  ten  thou.  debentures  is  only 
six  hundred  quid  a  year,  and  if  the  tale  I've 
heard  is  right  there  should  be  a  thundering 
sight  more  than  that  in  it.  We'll  become  good 
little  industrial  investors  with  money  to 
spend  for  once,  Reiny.  Anyhow,  we  shall 
have  the  control  of  the  biz  if  we've  all  the 
ordinaries."  And  Dwyer 's  surprise  and  dis- 
gust when  the  acceptance  reached  him  next 
morning  nearly  deprived  him  of  speech. 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Stewart,"  he  told  Marion, 
who,  summoned  by  wire,  sat  in  the  office,  radi- 
[285] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

ant.  "I  never  imagined  they  would  look  at  it 
— and  yet  here's  their  check.  What  on  earth 
Laurence  will  say "  He  stopped  short. 

''What's  Mr.  Averil  got  to  do  with  it?" 
Marion  demanded  sharply. 

"He — he — well,  he  told  me  I  should  advise 
you  to  hold  on.  Perhaps  these  shares  would 
have  gone  higher,  you  know. ' ' 

"Perhaps  he  would  have  had  time  to  make 
an  offer  through  another  agent?"  Marion 
suggested  scornfully. 

* '  Laurence !  What  do  you  mean  f ' '  D wyer 
was  wide-eyed  with  surprise  and  indignation. 
'  *  Do  you  imagine  Laurence  would — would  try 
and  get  them  behind  your  back  in  that 
way?  Besides,  he  can't — he  hasn't  the 
money." 

"I  thought  he  was  rich?" 

"He  isn't,  then.  He's  a  poor  man.  If  you 
remember,  that  offer  of  two  hundred  was  to 
be  paid  in  two  instalments.  He  only  had  a 
hundred  pounds  to  his  name. ' ' 

"And  I've  made  sixteen  hundred — one 
thousand  six  hundred  pounds — off  less  than 
a  tenth  of  what  he  offered  me  two  hundred 
for.  Do  you  call  that  honorable  ? ' ' 

"He — he  didn't  know  you  were  the  holder 
of  the  shares." 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"I  don't  know — perhaps  it  hasn't  anything. 
[286] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

But  you  must  remember  nobody  thought  the 
shares  of  any  value  then." 

"Nobody  except  himself,  and  he  knew. 
And  now  I  can  get  twice  their  face  value  for 
them." 

"For  ordinaries — yes.  But  they're  only  a 
gamble,  you  see.  Under  no  circumstances 
can  you  expect  to  get  much  more  than  face 
value  for  your  debentures.  You  must  re- 
member that.  If  all  goes  well,  you  might — 
might,  I  say,  mind  you — you  might  get  a  hun- 
dred and  five  or  a  hundred  and  ten  for  each 
debenture.  Not  more." 

"Why  can't  I  get  as  much  for  them  as  the 
other  shares  f ' '  she  asked ;  and  Pat,  in  a  long 
explanation  as  to  the  respective  qualities  of 
debentures  and  ordinary  stock,  was  able  to 
lead  the  conversation  away  from  Laurence 
and  his  criminal  tendencies. 

For  the  next  week  Marion  enjoyed  herself 
hugely.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had 
money  to  spend  without  having  to  count  every 
penny,  and  she  displayed  a  taste  in  clothing 
and  amusements  that  made  her  landlady  and 
very  real  friend,  Mrs.  Jardine,  quake  with 
apprehension.  She  dragged  that  long-suffer- 
ing body  from  the  theater  to  the  milliner's, 
and  from  concert-hall  to  showroom,  at  a  rate 
that  barely  allowed  her  time  to  throw  up 
her  hands  and  say,  "Well!  well!"  in  a  faint 
[287] 


The    COMING    BACK    of 

crescendo,  at  each  new  departure.  She  spent 
nearly  a  hundred  pounds  of  her  new  capital 
in  ten  days,  and,  in  satisfying  her  womanly 
yearning  for  pleasures  and  pretty  things,  was 
able  to  congratulate  herself  on  having  had 
her  money 's  worth.  Then  came  a  letter  from 
Dwyer,  and  she  attended  the  office  again,  fash- 
ionably dressed,  bright  with  anticipation,  and 
altogether  a  very  different  being  from  the 
meek  little  workwoman  that  had  first  come 
there  seeking  an  address. 

She  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  luxurious 
rustle.  "And  what  is  it  now,  Mr.  Dwyer?" 
she  asked  merrily.  * '  More  fortunes  for  me  ? " 

"  'Fraid  not."  Dwyer  looked  serious. 
"Fact  is,  I  think  you  won't  make  much  more 
out  of  the  shares.  You've  got  to  begin  to  try 
and  sell  your  debentures  now." 

"Why?" 

"The  deposit  has  proved  to  be  only  a  sur- 
face one,"  he  told  her.  "We — we've  had  a 
representative  there,  and  his  report  is  dis- 
couraging— fatal,  in  fact." 

"When  did  you  hear?" 

"We  had  a  wire  last  night,  followed  by  a 
letter  this  morning.  I — I  hope  you  won't  be 
disappointed,  but  the  fact  is,  I'm  afraid  you'll 
have  some  difficulty  in  getting  those  deben- 
tures off  your  hands.  You  see,  they're  either 
worthless  paper,  or  they're  such  good  securi- 
[288] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

ties  that  people  would  be  surprised  at  your 
trying  to  get  rid  of  them,  and  they'll  naturally 
be  suspicious  of  them." 

"What  representative  have  you  sent 
there?" 

"That  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"You  needn't.  I  know.  It's  Mr.  Averil.  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  He's  trying  to  let 
down  the  price  of  shares,  so  that  he  can  buy." 

Annoyed  as  Dwyer  was,  he  yet  could 
scarcely  keep  from  laughing  in  her  face. 
1 l  The  idea ! "  he  said.  *  *  But  it 's  no  use  keep- 
ing in  the  fact,  Miss  Stewart.  The  advice 
does  come  from  Laurence,  and  if  you  're  wise, 
you'll  get  rid  of  your  debentures  as  soon  as 
possible — and  be  grateful  to  him.  If  it 
weren't  for  him,  you  wouldn't  have  got  a 
penny — and  even  at  the  worst,  you've  made 
sixteen  hundred  pounds." 

"Yes — for  which  he  offered  me  two  hun- 
dred, ' '  she  said  angrily.  "  He 's  tried  to  cheat 
me  all  along.  I  know.  I  shall  not  sell. ' ' 

1 '  Very  well.  Not  that  it  matters  much,  I'm 
afraid.  You'll  find  it  difficult  to  get  rid  of 
debentures  in  any  case,  as  I've  told  you  al- 
ready. And  now,  good-morning." 

But  Marion  sat  still.  "Won't— won't  you 
show  me  his  letter?"  she  asked. 

Pat  considered. 

"I  don't  know  that  there's  any  reason  why 
[289] 


The     COMING    BACK    of 

I  shouldn't,"  he  said,  and  handed  her  a  sheet 
of  note-paper  and  a  telegram.  The  latter 
was  dated  from  Leith  the  evening  before,  and 
was  short.  "Sell;  letter  follows,"  it  said, 
and  she  turned  to  the  letter. 

"DEAR  PAT," — it  ran, — "Here  I  am  again, 
bad-penny-like.  I've  been  to  Langholt  as 
fast  as  a  trawler  could  take  me,  and  beaten 
anybody  M.  &  E.  could  possibly  have  sent  by 
a  week  at  least." 

"What  does  this  mean?"  she  asked,  read- 
ing the  passage  aloud. 

"I  don't  know — can't  imagine.  He  might 
have  had  some  idea  Mortimer  &  Eeingold 
would  send  an  agent  to  inquire. ' ' 

"When  their  man  gets  there,  he'll  find  I've 
done  him  a  good  turn.  The  ground  is  nicely 
laid  open  for  his  inspection.  I  stuck  half  a 
dozen  dynamite  cartridges  under  Uthlid  rock, 
and  blew  that  interesting  relic  of  the  ages  to 
Glory,  and  there's  scarcely  enough  of  it  left 
for  him  to  write  his  name  on.  As  to  the 
malachite! — well,  it's  gone  to  Glory,  with  the 
rest.  The  explosion  blew  a  hole  in  the  ground 
as  big  as  the  pit  of  a  small  theater,  and  it's 
all  nicely  lined  with  shale — shale — shale  and 
lava  everywhere.  Not  a  speck  of  anything 
[290] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

else — so  that  game's  up.  We  made  speedy 
tracks,  bagged  a  native  boat — there  was  a 
bit  of  a  sea  running,  and  our  own  was 
smashed  to  splinters  in  landing — chucked  an 
unwilling  native  into  it,  and  got  off  to  the 
trawler.  Then  I  recompensed  the  simple  isl- 
ander with  gold,  up  anchor,  and  home  again, 
and  here  I  am.  Leith  to  Langholt,  a  day 
ashore,  and  Langholt  to  Leith,  all  in  eight 
days,  is  middling  smart  moving.  "Net  results : 
a  strained  boiler  tube  or  two,  a  pair  of  burnt 
sea-boots  and  a  guernsey  to  my  account,  and 
a  smashed  dinghy,  and  no  malachite.  Now 
go  to  Miss  Stewart  and  tell  her  to  sell.  M.  & 
K.  will  probably  stand  to  their  offer  of  five 
hundred  pounds,  and  she  must  consider  her- 
self lucky  if  she  gets  that.  My  shares  you 
can  chuck  in  the  fire." 

1  'What  shares?"  she  demanded,  looking  up 
from  the  letter  at  Dwyer. 

"Eh?"  He  looked  over  her  shoulders. 
' '  Oh,  these. ' '  He  took  them  from  his  desk,  and 
showed  her.  ' '  I  bought  these  four  for  him. ' ' 

"What  were  you  going  to  do  with  them  if 
the  discovery  had  proved  a  good  one!" 

"Laurence  left  word  that  they  were  to  be 
offered  to  you  at  par— their  face  value." 

"Did  he?"  Her  face  showed  her  wonder- 
ment. "But  why?" 

"That  I  must  leave  to  you  to  guess.  He 
[291] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

gave  me  no  reason,"  Dwyer  said.    He  was 
still  nettled  at  her  suspicions. 

She  looked  at  him  blankly,  then  turned  to 
the  letter  again. 

* '  Have  you  seen  anything  of  her,  Pat  f  If 
so,  you  might  drop  me  a  line  and  tell  me  how 
she's  looking,  and  whether  she's  chanced  to 
mention  my  name.  You  may  remember  our 
first  meeting.  She  came  to  your  office  in  a 
cab  with  me,  seeking  the  address  of  Tyrrell 's 
pal,  Webster.  I  saw  more  of  her  after  that, 
and  if  you'll  believe  me,  she  asked  my  advice 
as  to  whether  she  was  to  accept  my  offer  for 
those  shares.  I  never  knew  she  was  the 
holder  till  then,  of  course.  Do  you  remember 
once  when  you  were  going  to  tell  me  her 
name,  and  I  said  I  didn't  want  to  know  it? 
'Easier  to  rob  an  abstract  nonentity  than  an 
individual  woman,'  I  said.  And  'she's  not 
the  only  single  woman  in  the  world.'  But 
she  is,  worse  luck.  Heigh-ho!  I'm  not 
suited  for  the  role  of  love-lorn  swain,  I  fear 
me. 

"Enough  of  this.  Tell  her  to  sell  those 
shares — get  a  good  price  for  her,  old  man,  and 
when  you've  time  send  me  a  line  to  tell  me 
how  you've  got  on  and  what  price  they 
fetched. — Thine,  as  of  yore, 

"  LAURENCE. 

"  P.  S.— Don't  forget  to  tell  me  how  she 
[292] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

looks.  I  rely  on  you  not  to  let  her  get  hold 
of  my  name." 

She  sat  silently,  turning  the  letter  over  and 
over  in  her  hands.  "Why  did  he  want  his 
name  kept  quiet?"  she  asked  at  length,  her 
eyes  on  the  floor. 

"That,  again,  I  must  leave  to  you  to  guess. 
Perhaps  he  has  some  idea  of  buying  the 
shares,"  he  reminded  her  maliciously. 

' '  The — the  expenses  of  the  trip  I  must  make 
good  to  you,"  she  said,  disregarding  the  taunt 
behind  his  last  words. 

"They're  no  expenses  of  mine.  Laurence 
did  the  thing  off  his  own  bat. ' ' 

' ' But  I  thought  you  said  he  had  no  money? ' ' 

"I  suppose  a  hundred  pounds  is  enough  to 
take  him  to  Iceland  and  back,  twice  over.  If 
he's  been  chartering  trawlers,  overheating 
boiler  tubes,  and  smashing  dinghys,  he'll  find 
he's  made  a  hole  in  his  capital,  though." 

"Why— why   should   he "   she  began. 

But  she  knew  the  truth  before  her  sentence 
was  framed,  and  sat  quietly — very  quietly— 
never  speaking. 

Dwyer  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  stifling 
an  obtrusively  artificial  yawn,  and  she  blessed 
him  for  it  as  she  fumbled  for  a  pocket  hand- 
kerchief that  seemed  terribly  hard  to  come  at. 

She  was  on  her  feet  winking  suspiciously 
[293] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

when  he  turned  to  the  room  again,  but  the 
handkerchief  had  returned  to  the  mysterious 
recess  in  which  womankind  stores  such  be- 
longings. 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "Goo — good-by, 
Mr.  Dwyer,"  she  said,  with  her  best  attempt 
at  composure.  "I'm  very  much  obliged  for 
all  you've  done  for  me,"  and  glided  away 
silently. 

Pat  rubbed  his  nose  in  deep  thought. 
"I've  done  my  best  for  you,  Laurie,  my 
friend,"  he  said  at  length,  and  returned  to 
his  correspondence.  The  tune  he  whistled 
softly  would  have  provoked  an  open  rupture 
if  Laurence  had  been  there.  It  was  a  dismal 
rendering  of  the  Wedding  March. 


[294] 


CHAPTER  XXII 


MAEION  went  back  to  West  Kensington  as  one 
in  a  trance,  wide-eyed,  seeing  nothing.  The 
roar  of  traffic  in  her  ears  sunk  to  the  sound 
of  breakers  on  a  beach — such  breakers  as  beat 
boats  into  floating  pieces  of  wreckage — and 
the  thunder  of  the  train  as  it  plunged  into 
the  underground  ways  was  the  thunder  rend- 
ing dynamite  echoing  in  unknown  vast  soli- 
tudes. All  the  time  Laurence's  face  was  be- 
fore her.  Their  first  meeting — how  she  had 
hated  him  then !  At  the  memory  of  his  kiss 
the  shamed  blood  ran  warmly  in  her  veins  and 
her  face  flushed— but  not  as  it  had  flushed 
before.  How  strong  he  was — how  masterful. 
How  firmly  he  had  held  her— how  he  had 
laughed,  wickedly  and  recklessly,  when  she 
struck  him  on  the  mouth.  She  remembered 
his  grip  of  her  body,  and  how  she,  weakened 
by  the  brief  struggle,  had  been  drawn  to  his 
breast.  It  was  with  an  entirely  new  feeling— 
a  feeling  she  refused  to  analyze — that  the 
memory  came  to  her  now. 

And  he  had  left,  not  to  escape  her  wrath— 
oh,  fool !  to  think  that  he  could  ever  fear  her 
puny  rage — but  to  do  her  service.    And  she 
[295] 


The     COMING     BACK    of 

had  deemed  him  afraid ! — What  fools  women 
were!  She  remembered  the  hatred  with 
which  he  had  spoken  of  his  former  life — and 
now  he  had  gone  back  to  it  of  his  own  free 
will,  for  her  sake.  Between  the  lines  of  his 
letter  she  had  read  what  Dwyer  could  not 
read — the  weary  toil,  the  accidents  of  wind 
and  sea,  all  borne  for  her. 

On  arriving  home  she  went  straight  to  her 
room  and  laid  herself  down,  her  face  on  the 
pillow,  in  silent  self-reproach  at  the  injustice 
she  had  done  him.  For  an  hour  she  lay  there, 
never  stirring,  hiding  her  face  from  the  day, 
but  never  hiding  from  herself  for  a  moment 
the  happy,  shameful  truth  that  she  loved  him 
— loved  him — loved  him.  And,  thank  God !  he 
was  poor — and  she  need  not  go  to  him  with 
empty  hands. 

Wondering  at  her  absence,  Mrs.  Jardine 
sought  her,  and  at  her  knock  Marion  sat  bolt 
upright  upon  her  bed.  Her  eyes  were  bright 
and  wet  for  all  the  new-found  happiness  in 
them,  and  her  pillow  was  stained  with  tears. 
The  old  woman  came  in  and  stood  before  her. 

"Ye've  been  crying,"  she  said  accusingly. 

"I  haven't,"  Marion  declared  stoutly. 
"But — but  I'm  going  to,"  and  she  broke  down 
again  in  real  good  earnest,  sobbing  joyously 
against  the  older  woman's  shoulder. 

1 '  Dearie — dear, ' '  Mrs.  Jardine  said,  smooth- 
[296] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

ing  her  hair  lightly.     "What  is  it,  child! 
What  is  it?" 

"I  c-can't  tell  you,"  Marion  answered, 
choking.  * '  It 's  too  long  to  tell.  Let  me  cry. ' ' 

The  old  woman  held  her  gently  until  her 
passion  of  tears  was  over  and  she  had  sniffed 
herself  back  to  composure,  dabbing  at  her 
eyes  with  a  wet  and  crumpled  handkerchief 
the  while. 

"Now  I'm  all  right,"  she  announced,  with 
a  watery  smile.  "  It 's  no  good  your  asking  me 
anything,  you  dear  old  thing,  because  I  shan't 
tell  you.  I've  been  a  fool — and  now  I'm  a 
wise  woman.  And  very  soon  I — I'm  going  to 
be  a  happy  one,  I  do  believe.  And  that 's  all. " 
And  the  landlady,  knowing,  as  a  woman,  that 
tears  were  not  incompatible  with  happiness, 
asked  no  more.  Also  because  she  was  a 
woman  she  announced  her  immediate  inten- 
tion of  having  tea  brought  up  for  the  pair  of 
them.  But  as  she  went  to  the  door  she  could 
not  restrain  one  question. 

"Is  it  a  marriage,  dearie  I"  she  asked 
softly.  But  Marion,  with  an  April  face, 
rushed  at  her,  drove  her  from  the  room,  and 
shut  the  door  ungratefully  behind  her. 

"I'm  going  away  to-morrow,"  she  an- 
nounced, when  the  tea  was  produced. 

"And  where,  dearie?" 

"To  Leith." 

[297] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

"I  knew.  I  knew."  The  old  woman 
laughed  triumphantly.  "It's  Mr.  Averil. 
Now,  isn't  it?" 

Marion  fished  out  a  tea-leaf  from  her  cup 
and  placed  it  upon  the  back  of  one  hand, 
smacking  it  with  the  other,  after  the  approved 
method  of  divination,  until  it  stuck  to  her 
pink  palm. 

"Yes— No.  Yes— No.  Yes— No.  Yes- 
No,"  she  said.  "There,  it's  No.  Silly 
thing."  She  flicked  the  tea-leaf  at  the  land- 
lady disrespectfully.  "Yes — No — and  you 
can  choose  which  answer  you  like  best.  Now 
get  me  a  time-table,  and  let  me  see  what  time 
I  must  start." 

So  intent  was  she  on  the  packing  of  the 
raiment  that  should  reduce  Laurence  to  a  due 
state  of  subjugation  that  it  was  two  o'clock 
before  she  got  to  bed,  by  which  time  every 
article  of  dress  in  her  boxes  had  been  in- 
spected, approved,  packed,  unpacked  again, 
rejected,  and  again  packed,  at  least  twice 
over.  In  her  excitement  she  slept  but  little, 
but  by  ten  o'clock  next  morning  was  seated 
in  the  train,  very  silently  and  soberly  watch- 
ing the  racing  succession  of  northern  suburbs 
through  the  carriage  window.  The  eight 
hours '  lonely  voyaging  reduced  her  to  pitiful 
nervousness.  What  should  she  say  to  Lau- 
rence when  she  met  him?  What  would  he 
[298] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

think  of  her?  Unmaidenly?  Her  little  chin 
set  resolutely  at  the  thought.  Whatever  he 
thought  she  was  not  going  to  let  convention 
spoil  two  lives;  and  the  reflection  that  her 
own  was  one  of  them — a  reflection  that  would 
have  unnerved  most  women — only  made  her 
the  firmer  in  her  determination. 

She  slept  in  Edinburgh  that  night,  continu- 
ing her  journey  to  Leith  on  the  following 
morning,  and  on  arrival  went  straight  to 
Harper's  and  demanded  to  see  Mr.  Averil. 
He  was  not  in,  and  the  clerk  was  unable  to 
tell  her  where  he  had  gone.  Would  she  sit 
down  while  he  asked  Mr.  Harper? 

A  sudden  repugnance  against  speaking, 
even  casually,  of  her  affairs  to  a  clerk  came 
over  her.  She  would  see  Mr.  Harper  herself, 
she  said,  and  sending  in  her  card,  was  ushered 
into  his  private  office. 

''Please,  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Averil,"  she 
demanded,  refusing  the  seat  he  rose  to 
offer  her.  If  she  hesitated  now,  she  was 
lost. 

"He's  out,  Miss— Miss  Stewart,"  Clement 
informed  her,  consulting  the  card  he  held  in 
his  hand. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  he  is! " 

"He'll  be  on  the  quayside,  I've  nae  doubt. 
He'll  be  here  again  in  about  an  hour.  Will 
ye  not  wait?" 

[  299  ] 


The     COMING     BACK     of 

"No,  thank  you,"  Marion  said,  moistening 
her  dry  lips.  "It's — it's  very  important." 

Clement  glanced  at  her  keenly,  and  a  sud- 
den light  came  to  him. 

"Ye — ye '11  be  the  young  lady  that  owns  the 
Iceland  shares?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Then  I'll  take  the  liberty  o'  asking  what 
ye  want  wi'  one  o'  my  employees!"  he  de- 
manded, his  eyes  twinkling. 

Marion  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair, 
and,  "Lucky  lad,"  said  Clement  Harper  to 
himself. 

"It's — it's  private,"  said  unhappy  Marion, 
hot  and  miserable. 

1 '  Nae  doubt.  Sit  ye  down  a  minute,  young 
lady.  I've  something  t'  say  t'  ye — an'  then, 
if  ye  wish,  I'll  take  ye  to  the  quayside  my- 
self." 

Marion  sat  obediently,  and  Harper  walked 
up  and  down  the  room  in  front  of  her.  At 
last  he  came  to  rest  before  her  chair,  and 
stood  still,  looking  at  her  gravely. 

"Have  ye  known  him  long!"  he  asked. 
"Forgie  me  askin' — I'm  old  enough  to  be 
your  father. ' ' 

"About  a  month,"  Marion  answered,  her 
eyes  downcast,  the  long  lashes  lying  on  her 
flushed  cheeks. 

"And  of  that  month  he's  been  a  fortnight 
[300] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

away    from    ye.      D'ye    know    where    he's 
been?" 

"To— to  Iceland,  hasn't  he?" 

"Who  told  ye?" 

"His  friend,  Mr.  Dwyer." 

"Ah!"  He  became  preternaturally  grave. 
"D'ye  know,  I  feel  it's  my  duty  to  tell  ye 
that  Laurence  Averil  is  one  of  the  roughest 
men  in  my  employ?" 

The  little  chin  came  out  obstinately  as  she 
looked  slowly  up  at  him,  and  her  eyes  settled 
on  his  face. 

1 '  He 's  a  wild,  foul-mouthed,  drunken  ne  'er- 
do-weel.  Never  a  man  in  the  fleet  but 's  afraid 
o'  him — the  drivin',  man-killin'  sweater. 
He's  a " 

But  Marion  was  on  her  feet,  quivering  with 
anger.  "He's  a  man,11  she  said.  "And 
that's  more  than  can  be  said  of  you,  saying 
such  vile  things  behind  his  back.  I  hate  you 
— and  what's  more,  if— if  Laurence  Averil 
had  horns  and  a  tail  I  'd  marry  him.  There ! ' ' 
She  stamped  her  foot  and  swung  round  to 
the  door.  She  had  her  hand  on  the  handle 
before  Harper's  shout  of  laughter  made  her 
pause. 

"Eh,  eh!"  he  cried,  his  fat  sides  shaking. 

"Forgie's,  Miss  Stewart.    We  old  folks  must 

have  our  joke.    But  oh!  if  that's  the  way  ye 

mean  to  treat  dour  Laurence,  yours '11  be  a 

[301] 


The    COMING     BACK    of 

peaceful  household,  I'm  thinkin'.  Where's 
my  hat?"  Before  Marion  had  recovered 
from  her  surprise,  they  were  descending  the 
narrow  ways  to  the  Fish  Quay  together. 

On  the  road  he  told  her  of  his  early  con- 
nection with  her  own  story — of  the  sale  by 
him  of  the  lands  to  Laurence's  father.  "And 
have  ye  sold  all  yon  shares?"  he  asked. 

"Some  of  them." 

"Which?" 

"The  ordinary  shares.  I've  still  got  the 
debentures." 

"They'll  come  nicely  to  paper  a  room  wi'," 
he  told  her.  "Ye've  seen  your  last  profit 
from  that  company.  Well,  ye  got  rid  o'  th' 
ordinaries.  That's  one  service  Laurie's  done 
ye.  And  here's  another." — He  told  her  of 
the  episode  of  the  fire-box  on  his  last  trip,  and 
her  breath  came  quick  with  pride  and  love  at 
the  thought  of  his  daring  and  suffering  in 
her  cause.  "And  now  here's  the  Fish  Quay, 
and  yonder 's  Laurence.  I've  work  to  attend 
to  elsewhere,  and  ye  can  go  and  announce 
yourself." 

Laurence  stood  with  his  back  to  her  amid  a 
busy  knot  of  men  and  women.  Great  piles  of 
newly  caught  fish  lay  around  their  feet,  and 
a  man  standing  by  his  side  was  selling  them 
by  auction.  She  watched  him  for  some  time. 
[302] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

Occasionally,  as  he  turned  to  nod  to  the  sales- 
man, she  caught  a  view  of  his  profile.  It 
seemed  stern  and  forbidding,  but  at  length, 
taking  her  courage  in  both  hands,  she  picked 
her  way  between  the  heaps  of  fish,  and 
touched  him  on  the  arm. 

He  turned  over  his  shoulder  to  see  who  was 
behind  him.  She  saw  him  catch  his  lip  in  his 
teeth  at  recognition,  and  he  backed  an  order 
to  two  men,  carrying  a  great  basket  between 
them,  with  an  oath  that  made  them  jump. 

Then,  over  his  shoulder,  "Do  you  want 
me?"  he  asked  curtly. 

"Yes,"  she  told  him.  He  turned  and 
walked  back  with  her  to  the  edge  of  the  clam- 
orous circle,  and  stood  there,  his  eyes  still 
upon  the  men  who  were  bringing  up  and 
emptying  the  harvest  of  the  seas  upon  the 
stones. 

"Yes?"  he  said,  and  waited  for  her  to  be- 
gin. He  never  looked  at  her. 

"I— I've  sold  the  ordinary  shares,"  she 
announced  timidly. 

"Only  the  ordinaries.  Why  didn't  you  sell 
the  debentures?" 

"I  haven't  tried.  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late 
now." 

"Tchk,  tchk."  He  clicked  his  tongue  with 
annoyance.  "What  did  you  get  for  the 
others?" 

[303] 


T  h 


e     COMING     BACK     of 


1 l  Sixteen  hundred 
pounds." 

"Good!"  He  nod- 
ded approval,  but  still 
he  looked  away,  and 
they  were  both  silent 
for  a  while. 

She  broke  the  si- 
lence. "I've  spent  a 
hundred  of  it  al- 
ready," she  said. 

"Yes?" 

"Yes.  In — in  a 
trousseau.  I — I'm 
going  to  get  mar- 
ried." 

He  made  no  an- 
swer. She  saw  his 
shoulders  heave  with 
the  deep  breath  he 
took  as  his  back  came 
round  towards  her. 

All    he    had    ever 
heard     of    women's 
cruelty  raced  into  his 
brain.    Olden  legends 
of  gladiatorial  fights 
in  the  arena,   watched  by  the  languid  la- 
dies   of    old    Eome — tales    of   the    Spanish 
[304] 


LAURENCE        AVERIL 

bull-ring  of  the  present  day,  where  there 
were  more  mantillas  than  sombreros  in  the 
circles  of  seats  around  the  filthy  butchery. 
Oh,  cruel,  cruel  beast  of  a  woman !  This  was 
worse  than  he  had  ever  conceived.  However 
ill  he  had  behaved,  nothing  could  justify  this 
deliberate  torture  as  punishment.  Could 
women  know  the  pain  they  gave?  Was  it 
true  that  they  bore  suffering  better  than  men, 
because  they  were  themselves  incapable  of 
keen  feeling? 

Again  her  hand  touched  his  arm,  and  her 
shaking  voice  broke  in  upon  his  thoughts. 

''Don't — don't  you  want  to  know  who  it 
is?"  she  asked. 

' '  No. ' '    His  voice  was  harsh  and  hoarse. 

"0-oh."  The  touch  upon  his  arm  became 
a  timorous  squeeze,  and  he  turned  towards 
her  in  consternation.  Was  she  ill?  he  won- 
dered. 

But  her  lips  were  smiling,  though  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  Beneath  their  wet  and 
fluttering  lashes  they  looked  bravely  into  his 
own.  And— "And  must  I  ask  you  myself, 
then,  Laurence  Averil?"  she  said. 


[305] 


"£  SOUTHEW IREfiOML  LOW*  FAQUTY 


A     000128358     9 


